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Title: The Shadow of the East

Author: E. M. Hull

Release Date: May, 2005 [EBook #8143]
[Yes, we are more than one year ahead of schedule]
[This file was first posted on June 19, 2003]

Edition: 10

Language: English

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THE SHADOW OF THE EAST



BY

E. M. HULL

1921



    "_The fathers have eaten sour grapes and the children's
    teeth are set on edge_."

                              _Ezekiel xviii 2_.




CHAPTER I


The American yacht lying off the harbour at Yokohama was
brilliantly lit from stem to stern. Between it and the shore the
reflection of the full moon glittered on the water up to the steps
of the big black landing-stage. The glamour of the eastern night
and the moonlight combined to lend enchantment to a scene that by
day is blatant and tawdry, and the countless coloured lamps
twinkling along the sea wall and dotted over the Bluff transformed
the Japanese town into fairyland.

The night was warm and still, and there was barely a ripple on the
water. The Bay was full of craft--liners, tramps, and yachts
swinging slowly with the tide, and hurrying to and fro sampans and
electric launches jostled indiscriminately.

On board the yacht three men were lying in long chairs on the
deck. Jermyn Atherton, the millionaire owner, a tall thin American
whose keen, clever face looked singularly youthful under a thick
crop of iron-grey hair, sat forward in his chair to light a fresh
cigar, and then turned to the man on his right. "I guess I've had
every official in Japan hunting for you these last two days,
Barry. If I hadn't had your wire from Tokio this morning I should
have gone to our Consul and churned up the whole Japanese Secret
Service and made an international affair of it," he laughed.
"Where in all creation were you? I should hardly have thought it
possible to get out of touch in this little old island. The
authorities, too, knew all about you, and reckoned they could lay
their hands on you in twelve hours. I rattled them up some," he
added, with evident satisfaction.

The Englishman smiled.

"You seem to have done," he said dryly. "When I got into Tokio
this morning I was fallen on by a hysterical inspector of police
who implored me with tears to communicate immediately with an
infuriated American who was raising Cain in Yokohama over my
disappearance. As a matter of fact I was in a little village
twenty miles inland from Tokio--quite off the beaten track.
There's an old Shinto temple there that I have been wanting to
sketch for a long time."

"Atherton's luck!" commented the American complacently. "It
generally holds good. I couldn't leave Japan without seeing you,
and I must sail tonight."

"What's your hurry--Wall Street going to the dogs without you?"

"No. I've cut out from Wall Street. I've made all the money I
want, and I'm only concerned with spending it now. No, the fact is
I--er--I left home rather suddenly."

A soft chuckle came from the recumbent occupant of the third
chair, but Atherton ignored it and hurried on, twirling rapidly,
as he spoke, a single eyeglass attached to a thin black cord.

"Ever since Nina and I were married last year we've been going the
devil of a pace. We had to entertain every one who had entertained
us--and a few more folk besides. There was something doing all day
and every day until at last it seemed to me that I never saw my
wife except at the other end of a dining table with a crowd of
silly fools in between us. I reckoned I'd just about had enough of
it. Came on me just like a flash sitting in my office down town
one morning, so I buzzed home right away in the auto and told her
I was sick of the whole thing and that I wanted her to come away
with me and see what real life was like--out West or anywhere else
on earth away from that durned society crowd. I'll admit I lost my
temper and did some shouting. Nina couldn't see it from my point
of view.

"My God, Jermyn! I should think not," drawled a sleepy voice from
the third chair, and a short, immensely stout man struggled up
into a sitting position, mopping his forehead vigorously. "You've
the instincts of a Turk rather than of an enlightened American
citizen. You've not seen my sister-in-law yet, Mr. Craven," he
turned to the Englishman. "She's a peach! Smartest little girl in
N'York. Leader of society--dollars no object--small wonder she
didn't fall in with Jermyn's prehistoric notions. You're a cave
man, elder brother--I put my money on Nina every time. Hell! isn't
it hot?" He sank down again full length, flapping his handkerchief
feebly at a persistent mosquito.

"We argued for a week," resumed Jermyn Atherton when his brother's
sleepy drawl subsided, "and didn't seem to get any further on. At
last I lost my temper completely and decided to clear out alone if
Nina wouldn't come with me. Leslie was not doing anything at the
time, so I persuaded him to come along too."

Leslie Atherton sat up again with a jerk.

"_Persuaded_!" he exploded, "A dam' queer notion of
persuasion. Shanghaied, I call it. Ran me to earth at the club at
five o'clock, and we sailed at eight. If my man hadn't been fond
of the sea and keen on the trip himself, I should have left America
for a cruise round the world in the clothes I stood up in--and Jermyn's
duds would be about as useful to me as a suit of reach-me-downs off
the line. Persuasion? Shucks! Jermyn thought it was kind of funny to
start right off on an ocean trip at a moment's notice and show Nina
he didn't care a durn. Crazy notion of humour." He lay back languidly
and covered his face with a large silk handkerchief.

Barry Craven turned toward his host with amused curiosity in his
grey eyes.

"Well?" He asked at length.

Atherton returned his look with a slightly embarrassed smile.

"It hasn't been so blamed funny after all," he said quietly. "A
Chinese coffin-ship from 'Frisco would be hilarious compared with
this trip," rapped a sarcastic voice from behind the silk
handkerchief.

"I've felt a brute ever since we lost sight of Sandy Hook,"
continued Atherton, looking away toward the twinkling lights on
shore, "and as soon as we put in here I couldn't stand it any
longer, so I cabled to Nina that I was returning at once. I'm
quite prepared to eat humble pie and all the rest of it--in fact
I shall relish it," with a sudden shy laugh.

His brother heaved his vast bulk clear of the deck chair with a
mighty effort.

"Humble pie! Huh!" he snorted contemptuously. "She'll kill the
fatted calf and put a halo of glory round your head and invite
in all the neighbours 'for this my prodigal husband has returned
to me!'" He ducked with surprising swiftness to avoid a book that
Atherton hurled at his head and shook a chubby forefinger at him
reprovingly.

"Don't assault the only guide, philosopher and friend you've got
who has the courage to tell you a few home truths. Say, Jermyn,
d'y'know why I finally consented to come on this crazy cruise,
anyway? Because Nina got me on the phone while you were hammering
away at me at the club and ordered me to go right along with you
and see you didn't do any dam foolishness. Oh, she's got me to
heel right enough. Well! I guess I'll turn in and get to sleep
before those fool engines start chump-chumping under my pillow.
You boys will want a pow-wow to your two selves; there are times
when three is a crowd. Good-bye, Mr. Craven, pleased to have met
you. Hope to see you in the Adirondacks next summer--a bit more
crowded than the Rockies, which are Jermyn's Mecca, but more home
comforts--appeal to a man of my build." He slipped away with the
noiseless tread that is habitual to heavy men.

Jermyn Atherton looked after his retreating figure and laughed
uproariously.

"Isn't he the darndest? A clam is communicative compared with
Leslie. Fancy him having that card up his sleeve all the while.
Nina's had the bulge on me right straight along."

He pushed a cigar-box across the wicker table between them.

"No, thanks," said Craven, taking a case from his pocket. "I'll
have a cigarette, if you don't mind."

The American settled himself in his chair, his hands clasped
behind his head, staring at the harbour lights, his thoughts
very obviously some thousands of miles away. Craven watched
him speculatively. Atherton the big game-hunter, Atherton the
mine-owner, he knew perfectly--but Atherton the New York broker,
Atherton married, he was unacquainted with and he was trying to
adjust and consolidate the two personalities.

It was the same Atherton--but more human, more humble, if such a
word could be applied to an American millionaire. He felt a sudden
curiosity to see the woman who had brought that new look into his
old friend's keen blue eyes. He was conscious of an odd feeling of
envy. Atherton became aware at last of his attentive gaze and
grinned sheepishly.

"Must seem a bit of a fool to you, old man, but I feel like a boy
going home for the holidays and that's the truth. But I've been
yapping about my own affair all evening. What about you--staying
on in Japan? Been here quite a while now, haven't you?"

"Just over a year."

"Like it?"

"Yes, Japan has got into my bones."

"Lazy kind of life, isn't it?"

There was no apparent change in Atherton's drawl, but Craven
turned his head quickly and looked at him before answering.

"I'm a lazy kind of fellow," he replied quietly.

"You weren't lazy in the Rockies," said Atherton sharply.

"Oh, yes I was. There are grades of laziness."

Atherton flung the stub of his cigar overboard and selecting a
fresh one, cut the end off carefully.

"Still got that Jap boy who was with you in America?"

"Yoshio? Yes. I picked him up in San Francisco ten years ago.
He'll never leave me now."

"Saved his life, didn't you? He spun me a great yarn one day in
camp."

Craven laughed and shrugged. "Yoshio has an Oriental imagination
and quite a flair for romance. I did pull him out of a hole in
'Frisco but he was putting up a very tidy little show on his own
account. He's the toughest little beggar I've ever come across and
doesn't know the meaning of fear. If I'm ever in a big scrap I
hope I shall have Yoshio behind me."

"You seem to be pretty well known over yonder," said Atherton with
a vague movement of his head toward the shore.

"It is not a big town and the foreign population is not vast.
Besides, there are traditions. I am the second Barry Craven to
live in Yokohama--my father lived several years and finally died
here. He was obsessed with Japan."

"And with the Japanese?"

"And with the Japanese."

Atherton frowned at the glowing end of his cigar.

"Nina and I ran down to see Craven Towers when we were on our
wedding trip in England last year," he said at length with seeming
irrelevance. "Your agent, Mr. Peters, ran us round."

"Good old Peters," murmured Craven lazily. "The place would have
gone to the bow-wows long ago if it hadn't been for him. He adored
my mother and has the worst possible opinion of me. But he's a
loyal old bird, he probably endowed me with all the virtues for
your benefit."

But Atherton ignored the comment. He polished his eyeglass
vigorously and screwed it firmly into position.

"If I was an Englishman with a place like Craven Towers that had
been in my family for generations," he said soberly, "I should go
home and marry a nice girl and settle down on my estate."

"That's precisely Peters' opinion," replied Craven promptly with a
good-tempered laugh. "I get reams from him to that effect nearly
every mail--with detailed descriptions of all the eligible
debutantes whom he thinks suitable. I often wonder whether he runs
the estate on the same lines and keeps a matrimonial agency for
the tenants."

Atherton laughed with him but persisted.

"If your own countrywomen don't appeal to you, take a run out to
the States and see what we can do for you."

The laugh died out of Craven's eyes and he moved restlessly in his
chair.

"It's no good, Jermyn. I'm not a marrying man," he said shortly.

Atherton smiled grimly at the recollection of a similar remark
emphatically uttered by himself at their last meeting.

For a time neither spoke. Each was conscious of a vague difference
in the other, developed during the years that had elapsed since
their last meeting--an intangible barrier checking the open
confidence of earlier days.

It was growing late. The sampans had nearly all disappeared and
only an occasional launch skimmed across the harbour.

A neighbouring yacht's band that had been silent for the last hour
began to play again--appropriately to the vicinity--Puccini's
well-known opera. The strains came subdued but clear across the
water on the scent-laden air. Craven sat forward in his chair, his
heels on the ground, his hands loosely clasped between his knees,
whistling softly the Consul's solo in the first act. From behind a
cloud of cigar smoke Atherton watched him keenly, and as he
watched he was thinking rapidly. He was used to making decisions
quickly--he was accustomed to accepting risks at which others
shied, but the risk he was now contemplating meant the taking of
an unwarranted liberty that might be resented and might result in
the loss of a friendship that he valued. But he was going to take the
risk--as he had taken many another--he had known that from the
first. He screwed his eyeglass firmer into his eye, a characteristic
gesture well-known on the New York stock market.

"Ever see _Madame Butterfly_? he asked abruptly.

"Yes."

Atherton blew another big cloud of smoke.

"Damn fool, Pinkerton," he said gruffly, "Never could see the
attraction myself--dancing girls--almond eyes--and all that sort
of thing."

Craven made no answer but his whistling stopped suddenly and the
knuckles of his clasped hands whitened. Atherton looked away
quickly and his eyeglass fell with a little tinkle against a
waistcoat button. There was another long pause. Finally the music
died away and the stillness was broken only by the soft slap-slap
of the water against the ship's side.

Atherton scowled at his immaculate deck shoes and then seized his
eyeglass again decisively.

"Say, Barry, you saved my life in the Rockies that trip and I
guess a fellow whose life you've saved has a pull on you no one
else has. Anyhow I'll chance it, and if I'm a damned interfering
meddler it's up to you to say so and I'll apologise--handsomely.
Are you in a hole?"

Craven got up, walked away to the side of the yacht and leaning on
the rail stared down into the water. A solitary sampan was passing
the broad streak of moonlight and he watched it intently until it
passed and merged into the shadows beyond.

"I've been the usual fool," he said at last quietly.

"Oh, hell!" came softly from behind him. "Chuck it, Barry. Clear
out right now--with us. I'll put off sailing until tomorrow."

"I--can't."

Atherton rose and joined him, and for a moment his hand rested on
the younger man's shoulder.

"I'm sorry--dashed sorry," he murmured. "Gee!" he added with a
half shy, half humorous glance, wiping his forehead frankly, "I'd
rather face a grizzly than do that again. Leslie keeps telling me
that my habit of butting in will land me in the family vault
before my time."

Craven smiled wryly.

"It's all right. I'm grateful--really. But I must hoe my own row."

The American swung irresolutely on his heels.

"That's so, that's so," he agreed reluctantly. "Oh damn it all,"
he burst out, "have a drink!" and going back to the table he
pounded in the stopper of a soda-water-bottle savagely.

Craven laughed constrainedly as he tilted the whisky into a glass.

"Universal panacea," he said a little bitterly, "but it's not my
method of oblivion."

He put the peg tumbler down with a smothered sigh.

"I must be off, Jermyn. It's time you were getting under way. It's
been like the old days to have had a yarn with you again. Good
luck and a quick run home--you lucky devil."

Atherton walked with him to the head of the gangway and watched
him into the launch.

"We shall count on you for the Adirondacks in the summer," he
called out cheerily, leaning far over the rail.

Craven looked up with a smile and waved his hand, but did not
answer and the motor boat shot away toward the shore.

He landed on the big pier and lingered for a moment to watch the
launch speeding back to the yacht. Then he walked slowly down the
length of the stage and at the entrance found his rickshaw
waiting. The two men who were squatting on the ground leaped up at
his approach and one hurriedly lit a great dragon-painted paper
lantern while the other held out a light dustcoat. Craven tossed
it into the rickshaw and silently pointing toward the north,
climbed in. He leaned back and lit a cigarette. The men sprang
away in a quick dog-trot along the Bund, and then started to climb
the hillside at the back of the town. They wound slowly up the
narrow tortuous roads, past numberless villas, hung with lights,
from which voices floated out into the quiet air.

The moon was brilliant and the night wonderfully light, but Craven
paid no attention to the beauty of the scene or to the gaily lit
villas. Atherton's invitation had been curiously hard to decline
and even now an almost overpowering desire came over him to bid
his men retrace their steps to the harbour. Then hard on the heels
of that desire came thoughts that softened the hard lines that had
gathered about his mouth. He pitched his cigarette away as if with
it he threw from him an actual temptation, and resolutely put out
of his mind Atherton and the suggestion of flight.

Still climbing upward the rickshaw passed the last of the
outlying European villas and turned down a side road where there
were no houses. For a couple of miles the men raced along a level
track cut on the side of a hill that rose steeply on the one hand
and on the other fell away precipitously down to the sea until
they halted with a sudden jerk beside a wooden gateway with a
creeper-covered roof on either side of which two matsu trees stood
like tall sentinels.

Waiting by the open gate was a short, powerful looking Japanese
dressed in European clothes. He came forward as Craven alighted
and gathering up the coat and hat from the floor of the rickshaw,
dismissed the Japanese who vanished further along the road into
the shadows. Then he turned and waited for his master to precede
him through the gateway, but Craven signed to him to go on, and as
the man disappeared up the garden path he crossed the road and
standing on the edge of the cliff looked down across the harbour.
The American yacht was the biggest craft of her kind in the roads
and easily discernible in the moonlight. The brilliant deck
illumination had been shut off and only a few lights showed. He
gave a quick sigh. Atherton's coming had been like a bar drawn
suddenly across the stream down which he was drifting. If Jermyn
had only come last year! The envy he had felt earlier in the
evening increased. He thought of the look he had seen in Atherton's
eyes and the intonation of his voice when the American spoke of the
wife to whom he was returning. What did love like that mean to a
man? What factor in Atherton's strenuous and adventurous life had
affected him as this had done? What were the ethics of a love that
rose purely above physical attraction--environment--temperament; a
love that grew and strengthened and absorbed until it ceased to be a
part of life and became life itself--the main issue, the fundamental
essence?

And as Craven watched he saw the yacht steam slowly down the bay.
He drew a deep breath.

"You lucky, lucky devil," he whispered again and swung on his
heel. He paused for a moment just within the gateway where on the
only level part of the garden lay a miniature lake, hedged round
with bamboo, clumps of oleander, fed by a little twisting stream
that came tumbling and splashing down the hillside in a series of
tiny waterfalls, its banks fringed with azalea bushes and slender
cherry trees. Then he walked slowly along the path that led
upward, winding to and fro through clusters of pines and cedars
and over mossy slopes to the little house which stood in a
clearing at the top of the garden surrounded by fir trees and
backed by a high creeper-clad palisade.

From the wide verandah, built out on piles over the terrace, there
was an uninterrupted view of the harbour. He climbed the four
wooden stairs and on the top step turned and looked again down on
to the bay. The yacht was now invisible, but in his mind he
followed her slipping down toward the open sea. And Atherton--what
were his thoughts while pacing the broad deck or lying in his
cabin listening to the screw whose every revolution was taking him
nearer the centre of his earthly happiness? Were they anything
like his own, he wondered, as he stood there bareheaded in the
moonlight, looking strangely big and incongruous on the balcony of
the little fairylike doll's house?

He shrugged impatiently. The comparison was an insult, he thought
bitterly. Again he stared out to sea, straining his eyes; trying
vainly to pick up the yacht's lights far down the bay. It was very
still, a tiny breeze whispered in the pines and drifted across his
face the sweet perfume of a flowering shrub. A cicada chirped in
the grass at his feet.

Then behind him came a faint rustle of silk. He heard the soft
sibilant sound of a breath drawn quickly in.

"Will my lord honourably be pleased to enter?" the voice was very
low and sweet and the English very slow and careful.

Craven did not move.

"Try again, O Hara San."

A low bubble of girlish laughter rippled out.

"Please to come in, Bar-ree."

He turned slowly, looking bigger than ever by contrast with the
slender little Japanese girl who faced him. She was barely
seventeen, dainty and fragile as a porcelain figure, wholly in
keeping with her exquisite setting and yet the flush on her
cheeks--free from the thick disfiguring white paste used by the
women of her country--and the vivid animation of her face were
oddly occidental, and the eyes raised so eagerly to Craven's were
as grey as his own.

He held out his arms and she fluttered into them with a little
breathless murmur, clinging to him passionately.

"Little O Hara San," he said gently as she pressed closer to him.
He tilted her head, stooping to kiss the tiny mouth that trembled
at the touch of his lips. She closed her eyes and he felt an
almost convulsive shudder shake her.

"Have you missed me, O Hara San?" "It is a thousand moons since
you are gone," she whispered unsteadily.

"Are you glad to see me?"

Her grey eyes opened suddenly with a look of utter content and
happiness.

"You know, Bar-ree. Oh, Bar-ree!"

His face clouded, the teasing word that rose to his lips died away
unspoken and he pressed her head against him almost roughly to
hide the look of trusting devotion that suddenly hurt him. For a
few moments she lay still, then slipped free of his arms and stood
before him, swaying slightly from side to side, her hands busily
patting her hair into order and smiling up at him happily.

"Being very rude. Forgetting honourable hospitality. You please
forgive?"

She backed a few steps toward the doorway and her pliant figure
bent for an instant in the prescribed form of Japanese courtesy
and salutation. Then she clasped both hands together with a little
cry of dismay. "Oh, so sorree," she murmured in contrition,
"forgot honourable lord forbidding that."

"Your honourable lord will beat you with a very big stick if you
forget again," said Craven laughing as he followed her into the
little room. O Hara San pouted her scarlet lips at him and laughed
softly as she subsided on to a mat on the floor and clapped her
hands. Craven sat down opposite her more slowly. In spite of the
months he had spent in Japan he still found it difficult to adapt
his long legs to the national attitude.

In answer to the summons an old armah brought tea and little rice
cakes which O Hara San dispensed with great dignity and
seriousness. She drank innumerable cupfuls while Craven took three
or four to please her and then lit a cigarette. He smoked in
silence watching the dainty little kneeling figure, following the
quick movements of her hands as she manipulated the fragile china
on the low stool before her, the restraint she imposed upon
herself as she struggled with the excited happiness that
manifested itself in the rapid heaving of her bosom, and the
transient smile on her lips, and a heavy frown gathered on his
face. She looked up suddenly, the tiny cup poised in her hand
midway to her mouth.

"You happy in Tokio?"

"Yes."

It was not the answer for which she had hoped and her eyes
dropped at the curt monosyllable. She put the cup back on the
tray and folded her hands in her lap with a faint little sigh
of disappointment, her head drooping pensively. Craven knew
instinctively that he had hurt her and hated himself. It was like
striking a child. But presently she looked up again and gazed at
him soberly, wrinkling her forehead in unconscious imitation of
his.

"O Hara San very bad selfish girl. Hoping you very _un_happy
in Tokio," she said contritely.

He laughed at the naive confession and the gloom vanished from his
face as he stood up, his long limbs cramped with the uncongenial
attitude.

"What have you been doing while I was away?" he asked, crossing
the room to look at a new kakemono on the wall.

She flitted away silently and returned in a few moments carrying a
small panel. She put it into his hands, drawing near to him within
the arm he slipped round her and slanted her head against him,
waiting for his criticism with the innate patience of her race.

Craven looked long at the painting. It was a study of a solitary
fir tree, growing at the edge of a cliff--wind-swept, rugged. The
high precipice on which it stood was only suggested and far below
there was a hint of boundless ocean--foam-crested.

It was the tree that gripped attention--a lonely outpost, clinging
doggedly to its jutting headland, rearing its head proudly in its
isolation; the wind seemed to rustle through its branches, its
gnarled trunk showed rough and weather-beaten. It was a poem of
loneliness and strength.

At last Craven laid it down carefully, and gathering up the
slender clasped hands, kissed them silently. The mute homage was
more to her than words. The colour rushed to her cheeks and her
eyes devoured his face almost hungrily.

"You like it?" she whispered wistfully.

"Like it?" he echoed, "Gad! little girl, it's wonderful. It's more
than a fir tree--it's power, tenacity, independence. I know that
all your work is symbolical to you. What does the tree mean--Japan?"

She turned her head away, the flush deepening in her cheeks, her
fingers gripping his.

"It means--more to me than Japan," she murmured. "More to me than
life--it means--you," she added almost inaudibly.

He swept her up into his arms and carrying her out on to the
verandah, dropped into a big cane chair that was a concession to
his western limbs.

"You make a god of me, O Hara San," he said huskily.

"You are my god," she answered simply, and as he expostulated she
laid her soft palm over his mouth and nestled closer into his
arms.

"I talk now," she said quaintly. "I have much to tell."

But the promised news did not seem forthcoming for she grew silent
again, lying quietly content, rubbing her head caressingly from
time to time against his arm and twisting his watch-chain round
her tiny fingers.

The night was very quiet. No sound came from within the house, and
without only the soft wind murmuring in the trees, cicadas
chirping unceasingly and the little river dashing down the
hillside, splashing noisily, broke the stillness. Nature, the
sleepless, was awake making her influence felt with the kindly
natural sounds that mitigate the awe of absolute silence--sounds
that harmonized with the peacefulness of the little garden.
Tonight the contrast between Yokohama, with its pitiful western
vulgarity obtruding at every turn, and the quiet beauty of his
surroundings struck Craven even more sharply than usual. It seemed
impossible that only two miles away was Theatre Street blazing and
rioting with all its tinsel tawdriness, flaring lights and whining
gramophones. Here was another world--and here he had found more
continuous contentment than he had known in the last ten years.
The garden was an old one, planned by a master hand. By day it was
lovely, but by night it took on a weird beauty that was almost
unreal. The light of the moon cast strong black shadows, deep and
impenetrable, that hovered among the trees like sinister spirits
lurking in the darkness.

The trees themselves, contorted in the moonlight, assumed strange
forms--vague shapes played in and out among them--the sombre
bushes seemed alive with peeping faces. It was the Garden of
Enchantment, peopled with a thousand djinns and demons of Old
Japan. The atmosphere was mysterious, the air was saturated with
sweet heavy scents.

Craven was a passionate lover of the night. The darkness, the
silence, the mystery of it appealed to him. He was familiar with
its every phase in many climates. It enticed him for long solitary
rambles in all the countries he had visited during the ten years
of his wanderings. Nature, always fascinating, was then to him
doubly attractive, doubly alluring. To the night he went for
sympathy. To the night he went for inspiration. It was during his
midnight wanderings that he seemed to get nearer the fundamental
root of things. It was to the night he turned for consolation in
times of need. It was then that he exorcised the demon of unrest
that entered into him periodically. All his life the charm of
the night had called to him and all his life he had responded
obediently. As a tiny boy one of his earliest recollections was of
slipping out of bed and, evading nurses and servants, stealing out
into the park at Craven Towers to seek the healing of the night
for some childish heartache. He had crept down the long avenue and
climbing the iron fence had perched on the rail and watched the
deer feeding by the light of the moon until all the sorrow had
been chased away and his baby heart was singing with a kind of
delirious happiness that he did not understand and that gave way
in its turn to a natural childish enjoyment of an adventure that
was palpably forbidden. He had slid down from the fence and
retraced his steps up the avenue until he came to the path that
led to the rose garden and eventually to the terrace near the
house. He had trotted along on his little bare feet, shivering now
and then, but more from excitement than from cold, until he had
come to the long flight of stone steps that led to the terrace. He
had laboriously climbed them one foot at a time, his toes curling
at the contact with the chill stone, and at the top he had halted
suddenly, holding his breath. Close to him was a tall indistinct
figure wrapped in dark draperies. For a moment fear gripped him
and then an immense curiosity swamped every other feeling and he
moved forward cautiously. The tall figure had turned suddenly and
it was his mother's sad girlish face that looked down at him. She
had lifted him up into her arms, wrapping her warm cloak round his
slightly clad little body--she had asked no questions and she had
not scolded. She had seemed to understand, even though he gave no
explanation, and it was the beginning of a sympathy between them
that had developed to an unusual degree and lasted until her
death, ten years ago. She had hugged him tightly and he had always
remembered, without fully understanding in his childhood, the half
incredulous, half regretful whisper in his ear, "Has it come to
you so soon, little son?"

The hereditary instinct, born thus, had grown with his own growth
from boyhood to manhood until it was an integral part of himself.

And the lure of the eastern nights--more marvellous and compelling
even than in colder climates--had become almost an obsession.

Little O Hara San, firm believer in all devils, djinns and
midnight workers of mischief, had grown accustomed to the
eccentricities of the man who was her whole world. If it pleased
him to spend long hours of the night sitting on the verandah when
ordinary folk were sensibly shut up in their houses she did not
care so long as she might be with him. No demon in Japan could
harm her while she lay securely in his strong arms. And if
unpleasant shadows crept uncomfortably near the little house she
resolutely turned her head and hiding her face against him shut
out all disagreeable sights and slept peacefully, confident in his
ability to keep far from her all danger. Her love was boundless
and her trust absolute. But tonight there was no thought of sleep.
For three long weeks she had not seen him and during that time for
her the sun had ceased to shine. She had counted each hour until
his return and she could not waste the precious moments now that
he had really come. The djinns and devils in the garden might
present themselves in all their hideousness if it so pleased them
but tonight she was heedless of them. She had eyes for nothing but
the man she worshipped. Even in his silent moods she was content.
It was enough to feel his arms about her, to hear his heart
beating rhythmically beneath her head and, lying so, to look up
and see the firm curve of his chin and the slight moustache golden
brown against his tanned cheek.

She stirred slightly in his arms with a little sigh of happiness,
and the faint movement woke him from his abstraction.

"Sleepy?" he asked gently.

She laughed gaily at the suggestion and sat up to show how wide
awake she was. The light from a lantern fell full on her face and
Craven studied it with an intensity of which he was hardly aware.
She bore his scrutiny in silence for a few moments and then looked
away with a little grimace.

"Thinking me very ugly?" she hazarded tentatively.

"No. Very pretty," he replied truthfully. She leaned forward and
laid her cheek for a second against his, then cuddled down into
his arms again with a happy laugh. He lit a cigarette and tossed
the match over the verandah rail.

"What is your news, O Hara San?"

She did not speak for a moment, and when she did it was no answer
to his question. She reached up her hands and drawing his head
down toward her, looked earnestly into his eyes.

"You loving me?" she asked a little tremulously.

"You know I love you," he answered quietly.

"Very much?"

"Very much."

Her eyes flickered and her hands released their hold.

"Men not loving like women," she murmured at length wistfully.
And then suddenly, with her face hidden against him, she told
him--of the fulfilling of all her hope, the supreme desire of
eastern women, pouring out her happiness in quick passionate
sentences, her body shaking with emotion, her fingers gripping
his convulsively.

Craven sat aghast. It was a possibility of which he had always
been aware but which with other unpleasant contingencies he had
relegated to the background of his mind. He had put it from him
and had drifted, careless and indifferent. And now the shadowy
possibility had become a definite reality and he was faced with a
problem that horrified him. His cigarette, neglected, burnt down
until it reached his fingers and he flung it away with a sharp
exclamation. He did not speak and the girl lay motionless, chilled
with his silence, her happiness slowly dying within her, vaguely
conscious of a dim fear that terrified her. Was the link that she
had craved to bind them closer together to be useless after all?
Was this happiness that he had given her, the culminating joy of
all the goodness and kindness that he had lavished on her, no
happiness to him? The thought stabbed poignantly. She choked back
a sob and raised her head, but at the sight of his face the
question she would have asked froze on her lips.

"Bar-ree! you are not angry with me?" she whispered desperately.

"How could I be angry with you?" he replied evasively. She
shivered and clenched her teeth, but the question she feared must
be asked.

"Are you not glad?" it was a cry of entreaty. He did not speak and
with a low moan she tried to free herself from him but she was
powerless in his hold, and soon she ceased to struggle and lay
still, sobbing bitterly. He drew her closer into his arms and laid
his cheek on her dark hair, seeking for words of comfort, and
finding none. She had read the dismay in his face, had in vain
waited for him to speak and no tardy lie would convince her now.
He had wounded her cruelly and he could make no amends. He had
failed her at the one moment when she had most need of him. He
cursed himself bitterly. Gradually her sobs subsided and her hand
slipped into his clutching it tightly. She sat up at last with a
little sigh, pushing the heavy hair off her forehead wearily, and
forcing herself to meet his eyes--looked at him sorrowfully, with
quivering lips.

"Please forgive, Bar-ree," she whispered humbly and her humility
hurt him more even than her distress.

"There is nothing to forgive, O Hara San," he said awkwardly, and
as she sought to go this time he did not keep her. She walked to
the edge of the verandah and stared down into the garden.
Problematical ghosts and demons paled to insignificance before
this real trouble. She fought with herself gallantly, crushing
down her sorrow and disappointment and striving to regain the
control she had let slip. Her feminine code Was simple--complete
abnegation and self-restraint. And she had broken down under the
first trial! He would despise her, the daughter of a race trained
from childhood to conceal suffering and to suppress all signs of
emotion. He would never understand that it was the alien blood
that ran in her veins and the contact with himself that had caused
her to abandon the stoicism of her people, that had made her
reveal her sorrow. He had laughed at her undemonstrativeness,
demanding expressions and proofs of her affection that were wholly
foreign to her upbringing until her Oriental reserve had slipped
from her whose only wish was to please him. She had adopted his
manners, she had made his ways her ways, forgetting the bar that
separated them. But tonight the racial difference of temperament
had risen up vividly between them. Her joy was not his joy. If
he had been a Japanese he would have understood. But he did not
understand and she must hide both joy and sorrow. It was his
contentment not hers that mattered. All through these last months
of wonderful happiness there had lurked deep down in her heart a
fear that it would not last, and she had dreaded lest any
unwitting act of hers might hasten the catastrophe.

She glanced back furtively over her shoulder. Craven was
leaning forward in the cane chair with his head in his hands
and she looked away hastily, blinded with tears. She had troubled
him--distressed him. She had "made a scene"--the phrase, read in
some English book, flashed through her mind. Englishmen hated
scenes. She gripped herself resolutely and when he left his chair
and joined her she smiled at him bravely.

"See, all the djinns are gone, Bar-ree," she said with a little
nervous laugh.

He guessed the struggle she was making and chimed in with her
mood.

"Sensible fellows," he said lightly, tapping a cigarette on the
verandah rail. "Gone home to bed I expect. Time you went to bed
too. I'll just smoke this cigarette." But as she turned away
obediently, he caught her back, with a sudden exclamation:

"By Jove! I nearly forgot."

He took a tiny package from his pocket and gave it to her.
Girlishly eager her fingers shook with excitement as she ripped
the covering from a small gold case attached to a slender chain.
She pressed the spring and uttered a little cry of delight. The
miniature of Craven had been painted by a French artist visiting
Yokohama and was a faithful portrait.

"Oh, Bar-ree," she gasped with shining eyes, lifting her face like
a child for his kiss. She leaned against him studying the painting
earnestly, appreciating the mastery of a fellow craftsman,
ecstatically happy--then she slipped the chain over her head and
closing the case tucked it away inside her kimono.

"Now I have two," she murmured softly.

"Two?" said Craven pausing as he lighted his cigarette. "What do
you mean?"

"Wait, I show," she replied and vanished into the house. She was
back in a moment holding in her hand another locket. He took it
from her and moved closer under the lantern to look at it. It hung
from a thick twisted cable of gold, and set round with pearls it
was bigger and heavier than the dainty case O Hara San had hidden
against her heart. For a moment he hesitated, overcoming an
inexplicable reluctance to open it--then he snapped the spring
sharply.

"Good God!" he whispered slowly through dry lips. And yet he had
known, known intuitively before the lid flew back, for it was the
second time that he had handled such a locket--the first he had
seen and left lying on his dead mother's breast.

He stood as if turned to stone, staring with horror at the replica
of his own face lying in the hollow of his hand. The thick dark
hair, the golden brown moustache, the deep grey eyes--all were the
same. Only the chin in the picture was different for it was hidden
by a short pointed beard; so was it in the miniature that was
buried with his mother, so was it in the big portrait that hung in
the dining-room at Craven Towers.

"Who gave you this?" he asked thickly, and O Hara San stared at
him in bewilderment, frightened at the strangeness of his voice.

"My mother," she said wonderingly. "He was Bar-ree, too. See," she
added pointing with a slender forefinger to the name engraved
inside the case.

A nightbird shrieked weirdly close to the house and a sudden gust
of wind moaned through the pine trees. The sweat stood out on
Craven's forehead in great drops and the cigarette, fallen from
his hand, lay smouldering on the matting at his feet.

He pulled the girl to him and turning her face up stared down into
the great grey eyes, piteous now with unknown fear, and cursed his
blindness. Often the unrecognised likeness had puzzled him. He
dropped the miniature and ground it savagely to powder with his
heel, heedless of O Hara San's sharp cry of distress, and turned
to the railing gripping it with shaking hands.

"Damn him, damn him!"

Why had instinct never warned him? Why had he, knowing the girl's
mixed parentage and knowing his own family history, made no
inquiries? A wave of sick loathing swept over him. His head
reeled. He turned to O Hara San crouched sobbing on the matting
over the little heap of crushed gold and pearls. Was there still a
loop-hole?

"What was he to you?" he said hoarsely, and he did not recognise
his own voice.

She looked up fearfully, then shrank back with a cry--hiding her
eyes to shut out the distorted face that bent over her.

"He was my father," she whispered almost inaudibly. But it sounded
to Craven as if she had shouted it from the housetop. Without a
word he turned from her and stumbled toward the verandah steps. He
must get away, he must be alone--alone with the night to wrestle
with this ghastly tangle.

O Hara San sprang to her feet in terror. She did not understand
what had happened. Her mother had rarely spoken of the man who
had first betrayed and then deserted her--she had loved him too
faithfully; with the girl's limited experience all western faces
seemed curiously alike and the similarity of an uncommon name
conveyed nothing to her for she did not realize that it was
uncommon. She could not comprehend this terrible change in the man
who had never been anything but gentle with her. She only knew
that he was going, that something inexplicable was taking him from
her. A wild scream burst from her lips and she sprang across the
verandah, clinging to him frantically, her upturned face
beseeching, striving to hold him.

"Bar-ree, Bar-ree! you must not go. I die without you. Bar-ree! my
love--" Her voice broke in a frightened whisper as he caught her
head in his hands and stared down at her with eyes that terrified
her.

"Your--love?" he repeated with a strange ring in his voice, and
then he laughed--a terrible laugh that echoed horribly in the
silent night and seemed to snap some tension in his brain. He tore
away her hands and fled down the steps into the garden. He ran
blindly, instinctively turning to the hillside track that led
further into the country, climbing steadily upward, seeking the
solitary woods. He did not hear the girl's shriek of despair, did
not see her fall unconscious on the matting, he did not see a
lithe figure that bounded from the back of the house nor hear the
feet that tracked him. He heard and saw nothing. His brain was
dulled. His only impulse was that of the wounded animal--to hide
himself alone with nature and the night. He plunged on up the
hillside climbing fiercely, tirelessly, wading mountain streams
and forcing his way through thick brushwood. He had taken, off his
coat earlier in the evening and his silk shirt was ripped to
ribbons. His hair lay wet against his forehead and his cheek
dripped blood where a splintered bamboo had torn it, but he did
not feel it. He came at last to a tiny clearing in the forest
where the moon shone through a break in the trees. There he
halted, rocking unsteadily on his feet, passing his hand across
his face to clear the blood and perspiration from his eyes, and
then dropped like a log. The next moment the bushes parted and his
Japanese servant crept noiselessly to his side. He bent down over
him for an instant. Craven lay motionless with his face hidden in
his arms, but as the Jap watched a shudder shook him from head to
foot and the man backed cautiously, disappearing among the bushes
as silently as he had come.

The breeze died away and it was quite still within the moonlit
clearing. A broad shaft of cold white light fell directly on the
prone figure. He was morally stunned and for a long time the
agony of his mind was blunted. But gradually the first shock
passed and full realization rushed over him. His hands dug
convulsively into the soft earth and he writhed at his helplessness.
What he had done was irremediable. It was a sudden thunderbolt
that had flashed across his clear sky. This morning the sun had
shone as usual and everything had seemed serene to him whose
life had always been easy--tonight he was wrestling in a hell of
his own making. Why had it come to him? He knew that his life
had been comparatively blameless. Why should this one sin, so
common throughout the world, recoil on him so terribly? Why
should he, among all the thousands of men who had sinned
similarly, be reserved for such a nemesis? Why of him alone
should such a reckoning be demanded? Surely the fault was not
his. Surely it lay with the man who had wrecked his mother's life
and broken her heart, the man who had neglected his duties and
repudiated his responsibilities and who had been faithful to neither
wife nor mistress. He was to blame. At the thought of his father
an access of rage passed over Craven and he cursed him in a
kind of dull fury. His fingers gripped the ground as if they were
about the throat of the man whom he hated with all the strength
of his being. The mystery of his father had always lain like a
shadow across his life. It was a subject that his mother had
refused to discuss. He shivered now when he realized the
agony his perpetual boyish questions must have caused her. His
petulance because "other fellows' fathers" could be produced
when necessary and were not shrouded away in unexplained
obscurity. He remembered her unfailing patience with him, the
consistent loyalty she had shown toward the husband who had
failed her so utterly, the courage with which she had taken the
absent father's place with the son whom she idolized. He
understood now her intolerant hatred of Japan and the Japanese,
an intolerance for which--in his ignorance--he had often teased
her. One memory came to him with striking vividness--a winter
evening, in the dawn of his early manhood, when they had been
sitting after dinner in the library at Craven Towers--his mother
lying on the sofa that had been rolled up before the fire, and
himself sprawled on the hearthrug at her feet. Already tall and
strong beyond his years and confident in the full flush of his
adolescence he had launched into a glowing anticipation of the
life that lay before him. He had noticed that his mother's answers
were monosyllabic and vague, and then when he had broken off,
hurt at her seeming lack of interest, she had suddenly spoken--telling
him what she had all the evening nerved herself to say. Her voice
had faltered once or twice but she had steadied it bravely and gone
on to the end, shirking nothing, evading nothing, dealing faithfully
with the whole sex problem as far as she was able--outraging
her own reserve that her son might learn the pitfalls and temptations
that would assuredly lie in wait for him, sacrificing her own modesty
that he might remain chaste. He remembered the vivid flush that had
risen to his face and the growing sense of hot discomfort with which
he had listened to her low voice; his half grateful, half shocked feeling.
But it was not until he had glanced furtively at her through his thick
lashes and seen her shamed scarlet cheeks and quivering downcast
eyes that he had realized what it cost her and the courage that had
made it possible for her to speak. He had mumbled incoherently,
his face hidden against her knee, and with innate chivalry had
kissed the little white hand he held between his own great brown
ones--"Keep clean, Barry," she had whispered tremulously, her
hand on his ruffled hair--"only keep clean."

And later on in the same evening she had spoken to him of the
woman who would one day inevitably enter his life. "Be gentle to
her, Barry-boy, you are such a great strong fellow, and women,
even the strongest women, are weak compared with men. We are poor
creatures, the best of us, we _bruise_ so easily," she had
said with a laugh that was more than half a sob. And for his
mother's sake he had vowed to be gentle to all women who might
cross his path. And how had he kept his vow? Tonight his egoism
had swallowed his oath and he had fled like a coward to be alone
with his misery. A great sob rose in his throat. Craven by name
and craven by nature he thought bitterly and he cursed again the
father who had bequeathed him such an inheritance, but as he did
so he stopped suddenly for a soft clear voice sounded close to his
ear. "No man need be fettered for life by an inherited weakness.
Every man who is worthy of the name can rise above hereditary
deficiencies." He lay tense and his heart gave a great throb and
then he remembered. The voice was inward--it was only another
memory, an echo of the young mother who had died, ten years
before. Overwhelming shame filled him. "Mother, Mother!" he
whispered chokingly, and deep tearing sobs shook his broad
shoulders. The moon had passed beyond the break in the trees
and it was dark now in the little clearing and to the man who lay
stripped of all his illusions the blackness was merciful. He saw
himself as he was clearly--his selfishness, his arrogance, his
pride, and a nausea of self-hatred filled him. The eagerness with
which he had sought to lay on his father the blame of his own
sin now seemed to him despicable. He would always hate the
memory of the man whose neglect had killed his mother, but the
responsibility for this horror rested on himself. He had made his
own hell and the burden of it lay with him only. That he had never
known the manner of his father's life in Japan and that during the
time he had himself been living in Yokohama he had cared to make
no inquiries was no excuse. He alone was to blame.

The air seemed suddenly stifling, his head throbbed and he panted
breathlessly. Then as suddenly the sensation passed and he rolled
over on his back with a deep sigh, his limbs relaxed, too weary to
move. For a long time he lay until the first pale streaks of early
dawn showed above the tree tops, then he sat up with a shiver and
looked around curiously at the silent trees and bamboo clumps that
had witnessed his agony. His head ached intolerably, his mouth was
parched and the cut in his cheek was stiff and sore. He staggered
to his feet and stood a moment holding his head in his hands and
the thought of O Hara San persisted urgently. He shivered again as
the image of the girl's distraught face and pleading eyes rose
before him--in a few hours he would have to go to her and the
thought of the interview sickened him. But he could not go now,
his appearance would terrify her, she might be asleep and he could
not wake her if nature had mercifully obliterated her sorrow for a
few hours. In his mad flight he had lost all sense of distance and
locality, but as the dawn grew stronger he recognised his
surroundings and started to tramp to his own bungalow at the top
of the Bluff. He stumbled through the woods, hurrying wearily to
reach home before the full light. It was still dusk when he
arrived and crossing the verandah went into his bedroom and flung
himself, dressed as he was, on to the bed. And the stealthy
footsteps that had tracked him through the night followed softly
and stopped outside the open doorway. The Jap stood for a few
moments listening intently.




CHAPTER II


Craven woke abruptly a few hours later with a spasmodic muscular
contraction that jerked him into a sitting position. Half dazed as
yet with sleep he swung his heels to the floor and sat on the edge
of the bed looking stupidly at his dusty boots and earth-stained
fingers. Then remembrance came and he clenched his hands with a
stifled groan. He drank thirstily the tea that was on a table
beside him and went to the open window. As he crossed the room the
reflection of his blood-stained haggard face, seen in a mirror,
startled him. A bath and clean clothes were indispensable before
he went back to the lonely little house on the hillside. He
lingered for a few minutes by the window, glad of the cool morning
breeze blowing against his face, trying to pull himself together,
trying to brace himself to meet the consequences of his folly,
trying to drag his disordered thoughts into something approaching
coherence. He stared down over the bay and the sunlit waters
mocked him with their dancing ripples sliding lightheartedly one
after the other toward the shore. The view that he looked upon had
been until this morning a never-failing source of pleasure, now it
moved him to nothing but the recollection of the hackneyed line in
the old hymn--"where only man is vile," and he was vile--with all
power of compensation taken from him. To some was given the chance
of making reparation. For him there was no chance. He could do
nothing to mitigate the injury he had done. She whom he had
wronged must suffer for him and he was powerless to avert that
suffering. His helplessness overwhelmed him. O Hara San, little
O Hara San, who had given unstintingly, with eager generous hands.
His face was set as he turned from the window and, starting to
pull off his torn shirt, called for Yoshio. But no Yoshio was
forthcoming and at his second impatient shout another Japanese
servant bowed himself in, and, kowtowing, intimated that Yoshio
had already gone on the honourable lord's errand and would there
await him, and that in the meantime his honourable bath was
prepared and his honourable breakfast would be ready in ten
minutes.

Craven paused with his shirt half off.

"What errand?" he said, perplexed, unaware that he was asking the
question audibly.

The man bowed again, with hands outspread, and gravely
shook his head conveying his total ignorance of a matter that
was beyond his province, but the pantomime was lost on Craven
who was wrestling with his shirt and not even aware that he had
spoken aloud. It was the first time in ten years' service that
Yoshio had failed to answer a call and Craven wondered irritably
what could have taken him away at that time in the morning, and
concluded that it was some order given by himself the day before,
now forgotten, so dismissing Yoshio and his affairs from his mind
he signed to the still gently explaining servant to go.

His brain felt dull and tired, his thoughts were chaotic. He saw
before him no clear course. Whichever way he looked at it the
horrible tangle grew more horrible. There was a recurring sense of
unreality, a visionary feeling of detachment which enabled him to
view the situation from an impersonal standpoint, as one
criticises a nightmare, confident in the knowledge that it is only
a dream. But in this case the confidence was based on nothing
tangible and the illusion faded as quickly as it rose and left him
confronted with the brutal truth from which there was no escape.

In the dressing room everything that he needed had been laid out in
readiness for him, and he dressed mechanically with a feverish haste
that struggled ineffectually with a refractory collar stud, and
caused him to execrate heartily the absent valet and his enigmatical
errand. Another ten minutes was lost while he hunted for his watch
and cigarette case which he suddenly remembered were in the coat
that he had left at the little house. Or had he searched genuinely?
Had he not rather been--perhaps unconsciously--procrastinating,
shrinking from the task he had in hand, putting off the evil moment?
He swung on his heel violently and passed out on to the verandah.
But at the head of the steps a vigilant figure rose up, bowing
obsequiously, announcing blandly that breakfast was waiting.

Craven frowned at him a moment until the meaning of the words
filtered through to his tired brain, then he pushed him aside
roughly.

"Oh, damn breakfast!" he cried savagely, and cramming his sun
helmet on his head ran down the garden path to the waiting
rickshaw. It never occurred to him to wonder how it came to be
there at an unusual hour. He huddled in the back of the rickshaw,
his helmet over his eyes. His nerves were raw, his mind running in
uncontrollable riot. The way had never seemed so long. He looked
up impatiently. The rickshaw was crawling. The slow progress and
the forced inaction galled him and a dozen times he was on the
point of calling to the men to stop and jumping out, but he forced
himself to sit quietly, watching the play of their abnormally
developed muscles showing plainly through the thin cotton garments
that clung to their sweat-drenched bodies, while they toiled up
the steep roads. And today the sight of the men's straining limbs
and heaving chests moved him more than usual. He used a rickshaw
of necessity, and had never overcome his distaste for them.

Emerging from a grove of pines they neared the little gateway and
as the men flung themselves backward with a deep grunt at the
physical exertion of stopping, Craven leaped out and dashed up the
path, panic-driven. He took the verandah steps in two strides and
then stopped abruptly, his face whitening under the deep tan.

Yoshio stood in the doorway of the outer room, his arms
outstretched, barring the entrance. His face had gone the grey
leaden hue of the frightened Oriental and his eyes held a curious
look of pity. His attitude put the crowning touch to Craven's
anxiety. He went a step forward.

"Stand aside," he said hoarsely.

But Yoshio did not move.

"Master not going in," he said softly.

Craven jerked his head.

"Stand aside," he repeated monotonously.

For a moment longer the Jap stood obstinately, then his eyes fell
under Craven's stare and he moved reluctantly, with a gesture of
mingled acquiescence and regret. Craven passed through into the
room. It was empty. He stood a moment hesitating--indefinite
anxiety giving place to definite fear.

"O Hara San," he whispered, and the whisper seemed to echo
mockingly from the empty room. He listened with straining ears for
her answer, for her footstep--and he heard nothing but the heavy
beating of his own heart. Then a moan came from the inner room and
he followed the sound swiftly. The room was darkened and for a
moment he halted in the doorway, seeing nothing in the half light.
The moaning grew louder and as he became accustomed to the
darkness he saw the old armah crouching beside a pile of cushions.

In a second he was beside her and at his coming she scrambled to
her feet with a sharp cry, staring at him wildly, then fled from
the room.

He stood alone looking down on the cushions. His heart seemed to
stop beating and for a moment he reeled, then he gripped himself
and knelt down slowly.

"O Hara San--" he whispered again, with shaking lips, "little
O Hara San--little--" the whisper died away in a terrible gasping
sob.

She lay as if asleep--one arm stretched out along her side, the
other lying across her breast with her small hand clenched and
tucked under her chin, her head bent slightly and nestled
naturally into the cushion. The attitude was habitual. A hundred
times Craven had seen her so--asleep. It was impossible that she
could be dead.

He spoke to her again--crying aloud in agony--but the heavily
fringed eyelids did not open, no glad cry of welcome broke from
the parted lips, the little rounded bosom that had always heaved
tumultuously at his coming was still under the silken kimono. He
bent over her with ashen face and laid his hand gently on her
breast, but the icy coldness struck into his own heart and his
touch seemed a profanation. He drew back with a terrible shudder.

How dared he touch her? Murderer! For it was murder. His work as
surely as if he had himself driven a knife into that girlish
breast or squeezed the breath from that slender throat. He was
under no delusion. He understood the Japanese character too well
and he knew O Hara San too thoroughly to deceive himself. He knew
the passionate love that she had given him, a love that had often
troubled him with its intensity. He had been her god, her
everything. She had worshipped him blindly. And he had left
her--left her alone with the memory of his strangeness and his
harshness, alone with her heart breaking, alone with her fear. And
she had been so curiously alone. She had had nobody but him. She
had trusted him--and he had left her. She had trusted him. Oh, God,
she had trusted him!

His quick imagination visualised what must have happened. Frantic
with despair and desperate at the seeming fulfilment of her fears
she had not stopped to reason nor waited for calmer reflection but
with the curious Oriental blending of impetuosity and stolid
deliberation she had killed herself, seeking release from her
misery with the aid of the subtle poison known to every Japanese
woman. He flung his arm across the little still body and his head
fell on the cushion beside hers as his soul went down into the
depths.

       *       *       *       *       *

An hour of unspeakable bitterness passed before he regained his
lost control.

Then he forced himself to look at her again. The poison had been
swift and merciful. There was no distortion of the little oval
face, no discoloration on the fair skin. She was as beautiful as
she had always been. And with death the likeness had become
intensified until it seemed to him that he must have been blind
beyond belief to have failed to detect it earlier.

He looked for the last time through a blur of tears. It seemed
horrible to leave her to the ministrations of others, he longed
to gather up the slender body in his arms and with his own hands
lay her in the loveliest corner of the garden she had loved so
much. He tried to stammer a prayer but the words stuck in his
throat. No intercession from him was possible, nor did she need
it. She had passed into the realm of Infinite Understanding.

He rose to his feet slowly and lingered for a moment looking
his last round the little room that was so familiar. Here were
a few of her most treasured possessions, some that had come to
her from her mother, some that he had given her. He knew them
all so well, had handled them so often. A spasm crossed his
face. It had been the home of the enchanted princess, shut off
from all the world--until he had come. And his coming had brought
desolation. Near him a valuable vase, that she had prized, lay
smashed on the floor, overturned by the old armah in the first
frenzy of her grief. It was symbolical and Craven turned from it
with quivering lips and went out heavily.

He winced at the strong light and shaded his eyes for a moment
with his hand.

Yoshio was waiting where he had left him. Craven walked to the
edge of the verandah and stood for a few moments in silence,
steadying himself.

"Where were you last night, Yoshio?" he asked at length, in a flat
and tired voice.

The Jap shrugged.

"In town," he said, with American brevity learned in California.

"Why did you come here this morning?"

Yoshio raised eyes of childlike surprise.

"Master's watch. Came here to find it," he said nonchalantly, with
an air that expressed pride at his own astuteness. But it did not
impress Craven. He looked at him keenly, knowing that he was
lying but not understanding the motive and too tired to try and
understand. He felt giddy and his head was aching violently--for a
moment everything seemed to swim before his eyes and he caught
blindly at the verandah rail. But the sensation passed quickly and
he pulled himself together, to find Yoshio beside him thrusting
his helmet into his hands.

"Better Master going back to bungalow. I make all arrangements,
understanding Japanese ways," he said calmly.

His words, matter-of-fact, almost brutal, brought Craven abruptly
to actualities. There was necessity for immediate action. This was
the East, where the grim finalities must unavoidably be hastened.
But he resented the man's suggestion. To go back to the bungalow
seemed a shirking of the responsibility that was his, the last
insult he could offer her. But Yoshio argued vehemently, blunt to
a degree, and Craven winced once or twice at the irrefutable
reasons he put forward. It was true that he could do no real good
by staying. It was true that he was of no use in the present
emergency, that his absence would make things easier. But that it
was the truth made it no less hard to hear. He gave in at last and
agreed to all Yoshio's proposals--a curious compound of devotion
to his master, shrewd commonsense and knowledge of the laws of the
country. He went quickly down the winding path to the gate. The
garden hurt him. The careless splashing of the tiny waterfall
jarred poignantly--laughing water caring nothing that the hand
that had planted much of the beauty of its banks was stilled for
ever. It had always seemed a living being tumbling joyously down
the hillside, it seemed alive now--callous, self-absorbed.

Craven had no clear impression of the run back into Yokohama and
he looked up with surprise when the men stopped. He stood outside
the gate for a moment looking over the harbour. He stared at the
place in the roadstead where the American yacht had been anchored.
Only last night had he laughed and chatted with the Athertons? It
was a lifetime ago! In one night his youth had gone from him. In
one night he had piled up a debt that was beyond payment. He gave
a quick glance up at the brilliant sky and then went into the
house. In the sitting-room he started slowly to pace the floor,
his hands clasped behind him, an unlit cigarette clenched between
his teeth. The mechanical action steadied him and enabled him to
concentrate his thoughts. Monotonously he tramped up and down the
long narrow room, unconscious of time, until at last he dropped on
to a chair beside the writing table and laid his head down on his
arms with a weary sigh. The little still body seemed present with
him. O Hara San's face continually before him--piteous as he had
seen it last, joyous as she had greeted him and thoughtful as when
he had first seen it.

That first time--the memory of it rose vividly before him. He had
been in Yokohama about a month and was settled in his bungalow. He
had gone to the woods to sketch and had found her huddled at the
foot of a steep rock from which she had slipped. Her ankle was
twisted and she could not move. He had offered his assistance and
she had gazed at him, without speaking, for a few moments, with
serious grey eyes that looked oddly out of place in her little
oval face. Then she had answered him in slow carefully pronounced
English. He had laughingly insisted on carrying her home and had
just gathered her up into his arms when the old armah arrived,
voluble with excitement and alarm for her charge. But the girl had
explained to her in rapid Japanese and the woman had hurried on to
the house to prepare for them, leaving Craven to follow more
slowly with his light burden. He had stayed only a few minutes,
drinking the ceremonial tea that was offered so shyly.

The next day he had convinced himself that it was only polite for
him to enquire about the injured foot. Then he had gone again,
hoping to relieve the tedium of her forced inactivity, until the
going had become a habit. The acquaintance had ripened quickly.
From the first she had trusted him, quickly losing her awe of him
and accepting his coming with the simplicity of a child. She had
early confided to him the story of her short life--of her solitude
and friendlessness; of the mother who had died five years before,
bequeathing to her the little house which had been the last gift
of the Englishman who had been O Hara San's father and who had
tired of her mother and left her two years after her own birth; of
the poverty against which they had struggled--for the Englishman
had left no provision for them; of the faithful old servant, who
had been her mother's nurse; of O Hara San's discovery of her own
artistic talent which had enabled her to provide for the simple
wants of the little household. She had grown up alone--apart from
the world, watched over by the old woman, her mind a tangle of
fairy-tales and romance--living for her art, content with her
solitude. And into her secluded life had come Barry Craven and
swept her off her feet. Child of nature that she was she had been
unable to hide from him the love that quickly overwhelmed her. And
to Craven the incident of O Hara San had come merely as a relief
to the monotony of lotus-eating, he had drifted into the connection
from sheer ennui. And then had come interest. No woman had ever
before interested him. He had never been able to define the
attraction she had had for him, the odd tenderness he had felt
for her. He had treated her as a plaything, a fragile toy to be
teased and petted. And in his hands she had developed from an
innocent child into a woman--with a woman's capacity for devotion
and self-sacrifice. She had given everything, with trust and
gladness. And he had taken all she gave, with colossal egoism, as
his right--accepting lightly all she surrendered with no thought
for the innocence he contaminated, the purity he soiled. He had
stained her soul before he had killed her body. His hands clenched
and unclenched convulsively with the agony of remorse. Recollection
was torture. Repentance came too late. _Too late! Too late!_ he words
kept singing in his head as if a demon from hell was howling them
in his ear. Nothing on earth could undo what he had done. No power
could animate that little dead body. And if she had lived! He
shuddered. But she had not lived, she had died--because of him.
Because of him, Merciful God, because of him! And he could make no
restitution. What was there left for him to do? A life of expiation
was not atonement enough. There seemed only one solution--a life
for a life. And that was no reparation, only justice. He put no
value on his own life--he wished vaguely that the worth of it were
greater--he had merely wasted it and now he had forfeited it.
Remained only to end it--now. There was no reason for delay. He
had no preparations to make. His affairs were all in order. His heir
was his aunt, his father's only sister, who would be a better guardian
of the Craven estates and interests than he had ever been. Peters
was independent and Yoshio provided for. There was nothing to be done.
He rose and opening a drawer in the table took out a revolver and held
it a moment in his hand, looking at it dispassionately. It was not the
ultimate purpose for which it had been intended. He had never imagined
a time when he might end his own life. He had always vaguely connected
suicide with cowardice. Was it the coward's way? Perhaps! Who can say
what cowardice or courage is required to take the blind leap into the
Great Unknown? That did not trouble him. It was no question of courage
or cowardice but he felt convinced that his death was the only payment
possible.

But as his finger pressed the trigger there was a slight sound
beside him, his wrist and arm were caught in a vice-like grip and
the weapon exploded harmlessly in the air as he staggered back,
his arm almost broken with the jiu-jitsu hold against which even
his great strength could do nothing. He struggled fruitlessly
until he was released, then reeled against the table, with teeth
set, clasping his wrenched wrist--the sudden frustration of his
purpose leaving him, shaking. He turned stiffly. Yoshio was
standing by him, phlegmatic as usual, showing no signs of exertion
or emotion as he proffered a lacquer tray, with the usual formula:
"Master's mail."

Craven's eyes changed slowly from dull suffering to blazing wrath.
Uncontrolled rage filled him. How dared Yoshio interfere? How
dared he drag him back into the hell from which he had so nearly
escaped? He caught the man's shoulder savagely.

"Damn you!" he cried chokingly. "What the devil do you mean--"
But the Jap's very impassiveness checked him and with an immense
effort he regained command of himself. And imperturbably Yoshio
advanced the tray again.

"Master's mail," he repeated, in precisely the same voice as
before, but this time he raised his veiled glance to Craven's
face. For a moment the two men stared at each other, the grey eyes
tortured and drawn, the brown ones lit for an instant with deep
devotion. Then Craven took the letters mechanically and dropped
heavily into a chair. The Jap picked up the revolver and, quietly
replacing it in the drawer from which it had been taken, left the
room, noiseless as he had entered it. He seemed to know
intuitively that it would be left where he put it.

Alone, Craven leaned forward with a groan, burying his face in his
hands.

At last he sat up wearily and his eyes fell on the letters lying
unopened on the table beside him. He fingered them listlessly and
then threw them down again while he searched his pockets absently
for the missing cigarette case. Remembering, he jerked himself to
his feet with an exclamation of pain. Was all life henceforward to
be a series of torturing recollections? He swore, and flung his
head up angrily. Coward! whining already like a kicked cur!

He got a cigarette from a near table and picking up the letters
carried them out on to the verandah to read. There were two, both
registered. The handwriting on one envelope was familiar and his
eyes widened as he looked at it. He opened it first. It was
written from Florence and dated three months earlier. With no
formal beginning it straggled up and down the sides of various
sheets of cheap foreign paper, the inferior violet ink almost
indecipherable in places.

"I wonder in what part of the globe this letter will find you?
I have been trying to write to you for a long time--and always
putting it off--but they tell me now that if I am to write at
all there must be no more _maana_. They have cried 'wolf'
so often in the last few months that I had grown sceptical,
but even I realise now that there must be no delay. I have delayed
because I have procrastinated all my life and because I am
ashamed--ashamed for the first time in all my shameless career.
But there is no need to tell you what I am--you told me candidly
enough yourself in the old days--it is sufficient to say that it
is the same John Locke as then--drunkard and gambler, spendthrift
and waster! And I don't think that my worst enemy would have much
to add to this record, but then my worst enemy has always been
myself. Looking back now over my life--queer what a stimulating
effect the certainty of death has to the desire to find even one
good action wherewith to appease one's conscience--it is a marvel
to me that Providence has allowed me to cumber the earth so long.
However, it's all over now--they give me a few days at the
outside--so I must write at once or never. Barry, I'm in trouble,
the bitterest trouble I have ever experienced--not for myself, God
knows I wouldn't ask even your help, but for another who is dearer
to me than all the world and for whose future I can do nothing.
You never knew that I married. I committed that indiscretion in
Rome with a little Spanish dancer who ought to have known better
than to be attracted by my _beaux yeux_--for I had nothing
else to offer her. We existed in misery for a couple of years and
then she left me, for a more gilded position. But I had the child,
which was all I cared about. Thank God, for her sake, that I was
legally married to poor little Lola, she has at least no stain on
her birth with which to reproach me. The officious individual who
is personally conducting me to the Valley of the Shadow warns me
that I must be brief--I kept the child with me as long as I could,
people were wonderfully kind, but it was no life for her. I've
come down in the social scale even since you knew me, Barry, and
at last I sent her away, though it broke my heart. Still even that
was better than seeing her day by day lose all respect for me. My
miserable pittance dies with me and she is absolutely unprovided
for. My family cast off me and all my works many years ago, but I
put my pride in my pocket and appealed for help for Gillian and
they suggested--a damned charitable institution! I was pretty
nearly desperate until I thought of you. I know no one else. For
God's sake, Barry, don't fail me. I can and I do trust Gillian to
you. I have made you her guardian, it is all legally arranged and
my lawyer in London has the papers. He is a well-known man and
emanates respectability--my last claim to decency! Gillian is at
the Convent of the Sacred Heart in Paris. My only consolation is
that you are so rich that financially she will be no embarrassment
to you. I realize what I am asking and the enormity of it, but I
am a dying man and my excuse is--Gillian. Oh, man, be good to my
little girl. I always hoped that something would turn up, but it
didn't! Perhaps I never went to look for it, _quien sabe?_ I
shall never have the chance again...."

The signature was barely recognisable, the final letter
terminating in a wandering line as if the pen had dropped from
nerveless fingers.

Craven stared at the loose sheets in his hands for some time in
horrified dismay, at first hardly comprehending, then as the full
significance of John Locke's dying bequest dawned on him he flung
them down and, walking to the edge of the verandah, looked over
the harbour, tugging his moustache and scowling in utter
perplexity. A child--a girl child! How could he with his soiled
hands assume the guardianship of a child? He smiled bitterly at
the irony of it. Providence was dealing hard with the child in the
Paris convent, from dissolute father to criminal guardian. And yet
Providence had already that morning intervened on her behalf--two
minutes later and there would have been no guardian to take the
trust. Providence clearly held the same views as John Locke on
charitable institutions.

He thought of Locke as he had known him years ago, in Paris, a man
twenty years his senior--penniless and intemperate but with an
irresistible charm, rolling stone and waster but proud as a
Spaniard; a man of the world with the heart of a boy, the enemy of
nobody but himself, weak but lovable; a ragged coat and the
manners of a prince; idealist and failure.

Craven read the letter through again. Locke had forced his
hand--he had no option but to take up the charge entrusted to
him. What a legacy! Surely if John Locke had known he would
have rather committed his daughter to the tender mercies even of
the "institution." But he had not known and he had trusted him.
The thought was a sudden spur, urging him as nothing else could
have done, bringing out all that was best and strongest in his
nature. In a few hours he had crashed from the pinnacle on which
he had soared in the blindness of egoism down into depths of
self-realisation that seemed bottomless, and at the darkest moment
when his world was lying in pieces under his feet--this had come.
Another chance had been given to him. Craven's jaw set squarely as
he thrust Locke's dying appeal into his pocket.

He ripped open the second letter. It was, as he guessed, from the
lawyer and merely confirmed Locke's letter, with the additional
information that his client had died a few hours after writing the
said letter and that he had forwarded the news to the Mother
Superior of the Convent School in Paris.

Craven went back into the sitting-room to write cables.




CHAPTER III


Owing to a breakdown on the line the boat-train from Marseilles
crawled into the Gare du Lyon a couple of hours late. Craven had
not slept. He had given his berth in the waggon-lit to an invalid
fellow passenger and had sat up all night in an overcrowded,
overheated carriage, choked with the stifling atmosphere, his long
legs cramped for lack of space.

It was early March, and the difference between the temperature of
the train and the raw air of the station struck him unpleasantly
as he climbed down on to the platform.

Leaving Yoshio, equally at home in Paris as in Yokohama, to
collect luggage, he signalled to a waiting taxi. He had the
hood opened and, pushing back his hat, let the keen wind blow
about his face. The cab jerked over the rough streets, at this
early hour crowded with people--working Paris going to its daily
toil--and he watched them hurrying by with the indifference of
familiarity. Gradually he ceased even to look at the varied types,
the jostling traffic, the bizarre posters and the busy newspaper
kiosks. His thoughts were back in Yokohama. It had been six weeks
before he could get away, six interminable weeks of misery and
self-loathing. He had shirked nothing and evaded nothing. Much had
been saved him by the discreet courtesy of the Japanese officials,
but the ordeal had left him with jangling nerves. Fortunately the
ship was nearly empty and the solitude he sought obtainable. He
felt an outcast. To have joined as he had always previously done
in the light-hearted routine of a crowded ship bent on amusements
and gaiety would have been impossible.

He sought mental relief in action and hours spent tramping the
lonely decks brought, if not relief, endurance.

And, always in the background, Yoshio, capable and devoted, stood
between him and the petty annoyances that inevitably occur in
travelling--annoyances that in his overwrought state would have
been doubly annoying--with a thoughtfulness that was silently
expressed in a dozen different devices for his comfort. That the
Jap knew a great deal more than he himself did of the tragedy that
had happened in the little house on the hill Craven felt sure, but
no information had been volunteered and he had asked for none. He
could not speak of it. And Yoshio, the inscrutable, would continue
to be silent. The perpetual reminder of all that he could wish to
forget Yoshio became, illogically, more than ever indispensable to
him. At first, in his stunned condition, he had scarcely been
sensible of the man's tact and care, but gradually he had come to
realize how much he owed to his Japanese servant. And yet that was
the least of his obligation. There was a greater--the matter of a
life; whatever it might mean to Craven, to Yoshio the simple
payment of a debt contracted years ago in California. That more
than this had underlain the Japanese mind when it made its quick
decision Craven could not determine; the code of the Oriental is
not that of the Occidental, the demands of honour are interpreted
and satisfied differently. Life in itself is nothing to the
Japanese, the disposal of it merely the exigency of a moment and
withal a personal prerogative. By all the accepted canons of his
own national ideals Yoshio should have stood on one side--but he
had chosen to interfere. Whatever the motive, Yoshio had paid his
debt in full.

The weeks at sea braced Craven as nothing else could have done.
As the ship neared France the perplexities of the charge he was
preparing to undertake increased. His utter unfitness filled him
with dismay. On receipt of John Locke's amazing letter he had both
cabled and written to his aunt in London explaining his dilemma,
giving suitable extracts from Locke's appeal, and imploring her
help. And yet the thought of his aunt in connection with the
upbringing of a child brought a smile to his lips. She was about
as unsuited, in her own way, as he. Caro Craven was a bachelor
lady of fifty--spinster was a term wholly inapplicable to the
strong-minded little woman who had been an art student in Paris
in the days when insular hands were lifted in horror at the mere
idea, and was a designation, moreover, deprecated strongly by
herself as an insult to one who stood--at least in her own
sphere--on an equality with the lords of creation. She was a
sculptor, whose work was known on both sides of the channel.
When at home she lived in a big house in London, but she travelled
much, accompanied by an elderly maid who had been with her for
thirty years. And it was of the maid as much as of the mistress
that Craven thought as the taxi bumped over the cobbled streets.

"If we can only interest Mary." There was a gleam of hope in the
thought. "She will be the saving of the situation. She spoiled me
thoroughly when I was a nipper." And buoyed with the recollection
of grim-visaged angular Mary, who hid a very tender heart beneath
a somewhat forbidding exterior, he overpaid the chauffeur
cheerfully.

There was an accumulation of letters waiting for him at the hotel,
but he shuffled them all into his overcoat pocket, with the
exception of one from Peters which he tore open and read
immediately, still standing in the lounge.

An hour later he set out on foot for the quiet hotel which had
been his aunt's resort since her student days, and where she was
waiting for him now, according to a telegram that he had received
on his arrival at Marseilles. The hall door of her private suite
was opened by the elderly maid, whose face lit up as she greeted
him.

"Miss Craven is waiting in the salon, sir. She has been tramping
the floor this hour or more, expecting you," she confided as she
preceded him down the corridor.

Miss Craven was standing in a characteristic attitude before an
open fireplace, her feet planted firmly on the hearthrug, her
short plump figure clothed in a grey coat and skirt of severe
masculine cut, her hands plunged deep into her jacket pockets, her
short curly grey hair considerably ruffled. She bore down on her
nephew with out-stretched hands.

"My dear boy, there you are at last! I have been waiting
_hours_ for you. Your train must have been very late--abominable
railway service! Have you had any breakfast? Yes? Good.
Then take a cigarette--they are in that box at your elbow--and
tell me about this amazing thunderbolt that you have hurled at me.
What a preposterous proposition for two bachelors like you and me!
To be sure your extraordinary friend did not include me in his
wild scheme--though no doubt he would have, had he known of my
existence. Was the man mad? Who was he, anyhow? John Locke of
where? There are dozens of Lockes. And why did he select you of
all people? What fools men are!" She subsided suddenly into an
easy chair and crossed one neat pump over the other. "All of 'em!"
she added emphatically, flicking cigarette ash into the fire with
a vigorous sidelong jerk. Her eyes were studying his face
attentively, seeking for themselves the answer to the more
personal inquiries that would have seemed necessary to a less
original woman meeting a much-loved nephew after a lapse of years.
Craven smiled at the characteristically peculiar greeting and the
well remembered formula. He settled his long limbs comfortably
into an opposite chair.

"Even Peter?" he asked, lighting a cigarette.

Miss Craven laughed good temperedly.

"Peter," she rejoined succinctly, "is the one brilliant exception
that proves the rule. I have an immense respect for Peter." He
looked at her curiously. "And--me, Aunt Caro?" he asked with an
odd note in his voice. Miss Craven glanced for a moment at the big
figure sprawled in the chair near her, then looked back at the
fire with pursed lips and wrinkled forehead, and rumpled her hair
more thoroughly than before.

"My dear boy," she said at last soberly, "you resemble my unhappy
brother altogether too much for my peace of mind."

He winced. Her words probed the still raw wound. But unaware of
the appositeness of her remark Miss Craven continued thoughtfully,
still staring into the fire:

"The Supreme Sculptor, when He made me, denied me the good looks
that are proverbial in our family--but in compensation he endowed
me with a solid mind to match my solid body. The Family means a
great deal to me, Barry--more than anybody has ever realised--and
there are times when I wonder why the solidity of mind was given
to the one member of the race who could not perpetuate it in the
direct line." She sighed, and then as if ashamed of unwonted
emotion, jerked her dishevelled grey head with a movement that was
singularly reminiscent of her nephew. Craven flushed.

"You're the best man of the family, Aunt Caro."

"So your mother used to say--poor child." Her voice softened
suddenly. She got up restlessly and resumed her former position
before the fire, her hands back in the pockets of her mannish
coat.

"What about your plans, Barry? What are you going to do?" she said
briskly, with an evident desire to avoid further moralising. He
joined her on the hearthrug, leaning against the mantelpiece.

"I propose to settle down--at any rate for a time, at the Towers,"
he replied. "I intend to interest myself in the estates. Peter
insists that I am wanted, and though that is nonsense and he is
infinitely more necessary than I am, still I am willing to make
the trial. I owe him more than I can even repay--we all do--and if
my presence is really any help to him--he's welcome to it. I shall
be about as much real use as the fifth wheel of a coach--a damned
rotten wheel at that," he added bitterly. And for some minutes he
seemed to forget that there was more to say, staring silently into
the fire and from time to time putting together the blazing logs
with his foot.

Miss Craven was possessed of the unfeminine attribute of holding
her tongue and reserving her comments. She refrained from comment
now, rocking gently backward and forward on her heels--a habit
associated with mental concentration.

"I shall take the child to the Towers," he continued at length,
"and there I shall want your help, Aunt Caro." He paused
stammering awkwardly--"It's an infernal impertinence asking you
to--to--"

"To turn nursemaid at my time of life," she interrupted. "It is
certainly a career I never anticipated. And, candidly, I have
doubts about its success," she laughed and shrugged, with a
comical grimace. Then she patted his arm affectionately--"You had
much better take Peter's advice and marry a nice girl who would
mother the child and give her some brothers and sisters to play
with."

He stiffened perceptibly.

"I shall never marry," he said shortly. Her eyebrows rose the
fraction of an inch but she bit back the answer that rose to her
lips.

"Never--is a long day," she said lightly. "The Cravens are an old
family, Barry. One has one's obligations."

He did not reply and she changed the conversation hastily. She had
a horror of forcing a confidence.

"Remains--Mary," she said, with the air of proposing a final
expedient. Craven's tense face relaxed.

"Mary had also occurred to me," he admitted with an eagerness that
was almost pathetic.

Miss Craven grunted and clutched at her hair.

"Mary!" she repeated with a chuckle, "Mary, who has gone
through life with Wesley's sermons under her arm--and a child
out of a Paris convent! There are certainly elements of humour
in the idea. But I must have some details. Who was this Locke
person?"

When Craven had told her all he knew she stood quite still for a
long while, rolling a cigarette tube between her firm hands.

"Dissolute English father--and Spanish mother of doubtful morals.
My poor Barry, your hands will be full."

"Our hands," he corrected.

"Our hands! Good heavens, the bare idea terrifies me!" She
shrugged tragically and was dumb until Mary came to announce
lunch.

Across the table she studied her nephew with an attention that she
was careful to conceal. She was used to his frequent coming and
going. Since the death of his mother he had travelled continually
and she was accustomed to his appearing more or less unexpectedly,
at longer or shorter intervals. They had always been great
friends, and it was to her house in London that he invariably went
first on returning to England--sure of his welcome, sure of
himself, gay, easy-going and debonair. She was deeply attached to
him. But, with something akin to terror, she had watched the
likeness to the older Barry Craven growing from year to year,
fearful lest the moral downfall of the father might repeat itself
in the son. The temptation to speak frankly, to warn, had been
great. Natural dislike of interference, and a promise given
reluctantly to her dying sister-in-law, had kept her silent. She
had loved the tall beautiful woman who had been her brother's wife
and a promise made to her was sacred--though she had often doubted
the wisdom of a silence that might prove an incalculable danger.
She respected the fine loyalty that demanded such a promise, but
her own views were more comprehensive. She was strong enough to
hold opinions that were contrary to accepted traditions. She
admitted a loyalty due to the dead, she was also acutely conscious
of a loyalty due to the living. A few minutes before when Miss
Craven had, somewhat shamefacedly, owned to a love of the family
to which they belonged she had but faintly expressed her
passionate attachment thereto. Pride of race was hers to an
unusual degree. All that was best and noblest she craved for the
clan. And Barry was the last of the Cravens. Her brother had
failed her and dragged her high ideals in the dust. Her courage
had restored them to endeavour a second time. If Barry failed her
too! Hitherto her fears had had no definite basis. There had been
no real ground for anxiety, only a developing similarity of
characteristics that was vaguely disquieting. But now, as she
looked at him, she realised that the man from whom she had parted
nearly two years before was not the man who now faced her across
the table. Something had happened--something that had changed him
utterly. This man was older by far more than the actual two years.
This was a man whom she hardly recognised; hard, stern, with a
curiously bitter ring at times in his voice, and the shadow of a
tragedy lying in the dark grey eyes that had changed so incredibly
for lack of their habitual ready smile. There were lines about his
mouth and a glint of grey in his hair that she was quick to
observe. Whatever had happened--he had suffered. That was written
plainly on his face. And unless he chose to speak she was
powerless to help him. She refused to intrude, unbidden, into
another's private concerns. That he was an adored nephew, that the
intimacy between them was great made no difference, the
restriction remained the same. But she was woman enough to be
fiercely jealous for him. She resented the change she saw--it was
not the change she had desired but something far beyond her
understanding that left her with the feeling that she was
confronting a total stranger. But she was careful to hide her
scrutiny, and though her mind speculated widely she continued to
chatter, supplementing the home news her scanty letters had
afforded and retailing art gossip of the moment. One question only
she allowed herself. There had come a silence. She broke it
abruptly, leaning forward in her chair, watching him keen-eyed.

"Have you been ill--out there?"--her hand fluttered vaguely in an
easterly direction. Craven looked up in surprise.

"No," he said shortly, "I never am ill."

Miss Craven's nod as she rose from the table might have
been taken for assent. It was in reality satisfaction at her own
perspicacity. She had not supposed for one moment that he had been
ill but in no other way could she express what she wanted to know.
It was in itself an innocuous and natural remark, but the sudden
gloom that fell on him warned her that her ingenuity was, perhaps,
not so great as she imagined.

"Triple idiot!" she reflected wrathfully, as she poured out
coffee, "you had better have held your tongue," and she set
herself to charm away the shadow from his face and dispel any
suspicion he might have formed of her desire to probe into his
affairs. She had an uncommon personality and could talk cleverly
and well when she chose. And today she did choose, exerting all
her wit to combat the taciturn fit that emphasized so forcibly the
change in him. But though he listened with apparent attention his
mind was very obviously elsewhere, and he sat staring into the
fire, mechanically flicking ash from his cigarette. Conversation
languished and at length Miss Craven gave it up, with a wry face,
and sat also silent, drumming with her fingers on the arm of the
chair. Her thoughts, in quest of his, wandered far away until the
sudden ringing of the telephone beside her made her jump
violently.

She answered the call, then handed the receiver to Craven.

"Your heathen," she remarked dryly.

Though the least insular of women she had never grown accustomed
to the Japanese valet. He turned from the telephone with a look of
mingled embarrassment and relief.

"I sent a message to the convent this morning. Yoshio has just
given me the answer. The Mother Superior will see me this
afternoon." He endeavoured to make his voice indifferent, pulling
down his waistcoat and picking a minute thread from off his coat
sleeve. Miss Craven's mouth twitched at the evident signs of
nervousness while she glanced at him narrowly. Prompt action in
the matter of an uncongenial duty had not hitherto been a
conspicuous trait in his character.

"You are certainly not letting the grass grow under your feet."

He jerked his head impatiently.

"Waiting will not make the job more pleasant," he shrugged. "I
will see the child at once and arrange for her removal as soon as
possible."

Miss Craven eyed him from head to foot with a grim smile that
changed to a whole-hearted laugh of amusement.

"It's a pity you have so much money, Barry, you would make your
fortune as a model. You are too criminally good looking to go
fluttering into convents."

A ghost of the old smile flickered in his eyes.

"Come and chaperon me, Aunt Caro."

She shook her head laughingly.

"Thank you--no. There are limits. I draw the line at convents.
Go and get it over, and if the child is presentable you can bring
her back to tea. I gather that Mary is anticipating a complete
failure on our part to sustain the situation and is prepared to
deputise. She has already ransacked _Au Paradis Des Enfants_ for
suitable bribes wherewith to beguile her infantile affection. I
understand that there was a lively scene over the purchase of a
doll, the cost of which--clad only in its birthday dress--was
reported to me as 'a fair affront.' Even after all these years
Mary jibs at Continental prices. It is her way of keeping up the
prestige of the British Empire, bless her. An overcharge, in her
opinion, is a deliberate twist of the lion's tail."

In the taxi he looked through the correspondence he had received
that morning for the lawyer's letter that would establish his claim
to John Locke's child. Then he leaned back and lit a cigarette. He
had an absurd feeling of nervousness and cursed Locke a dozen times
before he reached the convent. He was embarrassed with the awkward
situation in which he found himself--just how awkward he seemed
only now fully to appreciate. The more he thought of it, the less
he liked it. The coming interview with the Mother Superior was not
the least of his troubles. The promise of the morning had not been
maintained, overhead the sky was leaden, and a high wind drove rain
in sharp splashes against the glass of the cab. The pavements were
running with water and the leafless trees in the avenues swayed and
creaked dismally. The appearance of the streets was chill and
depressing. Craven shivered. He thought of the warmth and sunshine
that he had left in Japan. The dreariness of the present outlook
contrasted sufficiently with the gay smiling landscape, the riotous
wealth of colour, and the scent-laden air of the land of his
recollections. A feeling almost of nostalgia came to him. But with
the thought came also a vision--a little still body lying on silken
cushions; a small pale face with fast shut eyes, the long lashes a
dusky fringe against the ice-cold cheek. The vision was terribly
distinct, horribly real--not a recollection only, as on the morning
that he had found her dead--and he waited, with the sweat pouring
down his face, for the closed eyes to open and reveal the agony he
had read in them that night, when he had torn her clinging hands away
and left her. The faint aroma of the perfume she had used was in his
nostrils, choking him. The slender limbs seemed to pulsate into life,
the little breasts to stir perceptibly, the parted lips to tremble.
He could not define the actual moment of the change but, as he bent
forward, with hands close gripped, all at once he found himself
looking straight into the tortured grey eyes--for a second only.
Then the vision faded, and he was leaning back in the cab wiping
the moisture from his forehead. God, would it never leave him! It
haunted him. In the big bungalow on the Bluff; rising from the sea
as he leaned on the steamer rail; during the long nights on the ship
as he lay sleepless in the narrow brass cot; last night in the crowded
railway carriage--then it had been so vivid that he had held his breath
and glanced around stealthily with hunted eyes at his fellow passengers
looking for the horrified faces that would tell him that they also saw
what he could see. He never knew how long it lasted, minutes or seconds,
holding him rigid until it passed to leave him bathed in perspiration.
Environment seemed to make no difference. It came as readily in a crowd
as when he was alone. He lived in perpetual dread of betraying his
obsession. Once only it had happened--in the bungalow, the night
before he left Japan, and his involuntary cry had brought the watchful
valet. And as he crossed the room Craven had distinctly seen him pass
through the little recumbent figure and, with blazing eyes, had dragged
him roughly to one side, pointing and muttering incoherently. And Yoshio
had seemed to understand. Sceptical as he was about the supernatural,
at first Craven's doubt had been rudely shaken; but with the steadying
of his nerves had come the conviction that the vision was inward,
though at the moment so real that often his confidence momentarily
wavered, as last night in the train. It came with no kind of regularity,
no warning that might prepare him. And recurrence brought no mitigation,
no familiarising that could temper the acute horror it inspired. To what
pitch of actuality might it attain? To what lengths might it drive him?
He dragged his thoughts up sharply. To dwell on it was fatal, that way
lay insanity. He set his teeth and forced himself to think of other
things. There was ample material. There was primarily the salvage of
a wasted life. During the last few weeks he had been forced to a
self-examination that had been drastically thorough. The verdict
had been an adverse one. Personal criticism, once aroused, went far.
The purposeless life that he had led seemed now an insult to his
manhood. It had been in his power to do so much--he had actually
done disastrously little. He had loafed through life without a thought
beyond the passing interest of the moment. And even in the greater
interests of his life, travel and big game, he had failed to exert
himself beyond a mediocre level. He had travelled far and shot a rare
beast or two, but so had many another--and with greater difficulties
to contend with than he who had never wrestled with the disadvantages
of inferior equipment and inadequate attendance. Muscularly and
constitutionally stronger than the average, physically he could have
done anything. And he had done nothing--nothing that others had not
done as well or even better. It was sufficiently humiliating. And
the outcome of his reflections had been a keen desire for work, hard
absorbing work, with the hope that bodily fatigue might in some measure
afford mental alleviation. It did not even need finding. With a certain
shame he admitted the fact. It had waited for him any time these last
ten years in his own home. The responsibility of great possessions was
his. And he had shirked. He had evaded the duty he owed to a trust he
had inherited. It was a new view of his position that recent thought
had awakened. It was still not too late. He would go back like the
prodigal--not to eat the fatted calf, but to sit at the feet of Peters
and learn from him the secret of successful estate management.

For thirty years Peter Peters had ruled the Craven properties, and
they were all his life. For the last ten years he had never ceased
urging his employer to assume the reins of government himself. His
entreaties, protestations and threats of resignation had been
unheeded. Craven felt sure that he would never relinquish his
post, he had grown into the soil and was as firmly fixed as the
Towers itself. He was an institution in the county, a personality
on the bench. He ruled his own domains with a kindly but absolute
autocracy which succeeded perfectly on the Craven estates and was
the envy of other agents, who had not his ability to do likewise.
Well born, original and fearless he was popular in castle and in
cottage, and his advice was respected by all. He neither sought
nor abused a confidence, and in consequence was the depository of
most of the secrets of the countryside. To his sympathetic ears
came both grave offences and minor indiscretions, as to a kindly
safety-valve who advised and helped--and was subsequently silent.
His exoneration was considered final. "I confessed to Peter"
became a recognised formula, instituted by a giddy young
Marchioness at the north end of the county, whose cousin he was.
And there, invariably, the matter ended. And for Craven it was the
one bright spot in the darkness before him. Life was going to be
hell--but there would always be Peter.

At the Convent gates the taxi skidded badly at the suddenly
applied brakes, and then backed jerkily into position. Craven felt
an overwhelming inclination to take to his heels. The portress who
admitted him had evidently received orders, for she silently
conducted him to a waiting room and left him alone. It was
sparsely furnished but had on the walls some fine old rosewood
panelling. The narrow heavily leaded windows overlooked a paved
quadrangle, glistening with moisture. For a few moments the rain
had ceased but drops still pattered sharply on to the flagstones
from the branches of two large chestnut trees. The outlook was
melancholy and he turned from the window, shivering. But the
chill austere room was hardly more inspiring. The atmosphere was
strange to him. It was a world apart from anything that had ever
touched him. He marvelled suddenly at the countless lives living
out their allotted span in the confined area of these and similar
walls. Surely all could not submit willingly to such a crushing
captivity? Some must agonize and spend their strength unavailingly,
like birds beating their wings against the bars of a cage for freedom.
To the man who had roamed through all the continents of the world
this forced inactivity seemed appalling--stultifying. The hampering
of personal freedom, the forcing of independent minds into one
narrow prescribed channel that admitted of no individual expansion,
the waste of material and the fettering of intellects, that were
heaven-sent gifts to be put out to usury and not shrouded away in
a napkin, revolted him. The conventual system was to him a survival
of medievalism, a relic of the dark ages; the last refuge of the shirkers
of the world. The communities themselves, if he had thought of them
at all, had been regarded as a whole. He had never troubled to
consider them as composed of single individuals. Today he thought
of them as separate human beings and his intolerance increased. An
indefinite distaste never seriously considered seemed, during the few
moments in the bare waiting room, to have grown suddenly into
active dislike. He was wholly out of sympathy with his surroundings,
impatient of the necessity that brought him into contact with what he
would have chosen to avoid. He looked about with eyes grown hard
and contemptuous. The very building seemed to be the embodiment
of retrogression and blind superstition. He was filled with antagonism.
His face was grim and his figure drawn up stiffly to its full height
when the door opened to admit the Mother Superior. For a moment
she hesitated, a faint look of surprise coming into her face. And no
antagonism, however intolerant, could have braved her gentle dignity.
"It is--_Monsieur_ Craven?" she asked, a perceptible interrogation
in her soft voice.

She took the letters he gave her and read them carefully--pausing
once or twice as if searching for the correct translation of a
word--then handed them back to him in silence. She looked at him
again, frankly, with no attempt to disguise her scrutiny, and the
perplexity in her eyes grew greater. One small white hand slid to
the crucifix hanging on her breast, as if seeking aid from the
familiar symbol, and Craven saw that her fingers were trembling.
A faint flush rose in her face.

"_Monsieur_ is perhaps married, or--happily--he has a
mother?" she asked at last, and the flush deepened as she looked
up at the big man standing before her. She made a little gesture
of embarrassment but her eyes did not waver. They would not, he
thought with sudden intuition. For he realised that it was one of
his own order who confronted him. It was not what he had
anticipated. The Mother Superior's low voice continuing in gentle
explanation broke into his thoughts.

"_Monsieur_ will forgive that I catechise him thus but I had
expected one--much older." Her distress was obvious. And Craven
divined that as a prospective guardian he fell short of
expectation. And yet, his lack of years was apparently to her the
only drawback. His lack of years--Good God, and he felt so old!
His youth was a disadvantage that counted for nothing in the
present instance. If she could know the truth, if the anxious gaze
that was fixed so intently on him could look into his heart with
understanding, he knew that she would shrink from him as from a
vile contamination.

He conceived the horror dawning in her eyes, the loathing in her
attitude, and seemed to hear her passionate protest against his
claim to the child who had been sheltered in the safety of the
community that he had despised. The safety of the community--that
had not before occurred to him. For the first time he considered
it a refuge to those who there sought sanctuary and who were
safeguarded from such as--he. He winced, but did not spare
himself. The sin had been only his. The child who had died for
love of him had been as innocent of sin as the birds who loved and
mated among the pine trees in her Garden of Enchantment. She had
had no will but his. Arrogantly he had taken her and she had
submitted--was he not her lord? Before his shadow fell across her
path no blameless soul within these old convent walls had been
more pure and stainless than the soul of O Hara San. It was the
sins of such as he that drove women to this shelter that offered
refuge and consolation, to escape from such as he they voluntarily
immured themselves; surrendering the purpose of their being,
seeking in bodily denial the salvation of their souls.

The room had grown very dark. A sudden glare of light made Craven
realise that a question asked was still unanswered. He had not, in
his abstraction, been aware of any movement. Now he saw the Mother
Superior walking leisurely back from the electric switch by the
door, and guessed from her placid face that the interval had been
momentary and had passed unnoticed. Some answer was required now.
He pulled himself together.

"I am not married," his voice was strained, "and I have no mother.
But my aunt--Miss Craven--the sculptor--" he paused enquiringly
and she smiled reassurance.

"Miss Craven's beautiful work is known to me," she said with ready
tact that put him more at ease.

"My aunt has, most kindly, promised to--to co-operate," he
finished lamely.

The anxiety faded from the Mother Superior's face and she sat down
with an air of relief, motioning Craven to a chair. But with a
curt bow he remained standing. He had no wish to prolong the
interview beyond what courtesy and business demanded. He listened
with a variety of feelings while the Nun spoke. Her earnestness he
could not fail to perceive, but it required a decided effort to
concentrate, and follow her soft well modulated voice.

She spoke slowly, with feeling that broke at times the tone she
strove to make dispassionate.

"I am glad for Gillian's sake that at last, after all these years,
there has come one who will be concerned with her future. She has
no vocation for the conventual life and--I was beginning to become
anxious. For ourselves, we shall miss her more than it is possible
to say. She had been with us so long, she has become very dear to
us. I have dreaded that her father would one day claim her. She
has been spared that contamination--God forgive me that I should
speak so." For a moment she was silent, her eyes bent on her hands
lying loosely clasped in her lap.

"Gillian is not altogether friendless," she resumed, "she will go
to you with a little more knowledge of the world than can be
gained within these old walls." She glanced round the panelled
room with half-sad affection. "She is popular and has spent
vacations in the homes of some of her fellow pupils. She has
a very decided personality, and a facility for attracting affection.
She is sensitive and proud--passionate even at times. She can be
led but not driven. I tell you all this, _Monsieur_, not censoriously but
that it may help you in dealing with a character that is extraordinarily
complex, with a nature that both demands and repels affection, that
longs for and yet scorns sympathy." She looked at Craven anxiously.
His complete attention was claimed at last. A new conception of his
unknown ward was forcing itself upon him, so that any humour there
might have been in the situation died suddenly and the difficulties of
the undertaking soared. The Mother Superior smothered a sigh.
His attitude was baffling, his expression inscrutable. Had her words
touched him, had she said what was best for the welfare of the girl
who was so dear to her, and whose departure she felt so keenly?
How would she fare at this man's hands? What lay behind his stern
face and sombre tragic eyes? Her lips moved in silent prayer, but
when she spoke her voice was serene as before.

"There is yet another thing that I must speak of. Gillian has an
unusual gift." A sentence in Locke's letter flashed into Craven's
mind.

"She doesn't _dance_?" he asked, in some dismay.

"Dance, _Monsieur_--in a convent?" Then she pitied his hot
confusion and smiled faintly.

"Is dancing so unusual--in the world? No, Gillian
sketches--portraits. Her talent is real. She does not
merely draw a faithful likeness, her studies are revelations
of soul. I do not think she knows herself how her effects are
obtained, they grow almost unconsciously, but they result always
in the same strange delineation of character. It was so impossible
to ignore this exceptional gift that we procured for her the best
teacher in Paris, and continued her lessons even after--" She stopped
abruptly and Craven finished the broken sentence.

"Even after the fees ceased," he said dryly. "For how many years
has my ward lived on your charity, Reverend Mother?"

She raised a protesting hand.

"Ah--charity. It is hardly the word--" she fenced.

He took out a cheque book.

"How much is owing, for everything?" he said bluntly.

She sought for a book in a bureau standing against the
rosewood panelling and, scanning it, gave a sum with evident
reluctance.

"Gillian has never been told, but it is ten years since
_Monsieur_ Locke paid anything." There was diffidence in her
voice. "In an institution of this kind we are compelled to be
businesslike. It is rare that we can afford to make an exception,
though the temptation is often great. The head and the heart--_voyez,
vous, Monsieur_--they pull in contrary directions." And she
slipped the book back into a pigeon-hole as if the touch of it
was distasteful. She glanced perfunctorily at the cheque he
handed to her, then closer, and the colour rose again to her
sensitive face.

"But _Monsieur_ has written treble the amount," she murmured.

"Will you accept the balance," he said hurriedly, "in the name of
my ward, for any purpose that you may think fit? There is one
stipulation only--I do not wish her to know that there has been
any monetary transaction between us." His voice was almost curt,
and the Nun found herself unable to question a condition which,
though manifestly generous, she deemed quixotic. She could only
bend to his decision with mingled thankfulness and apprehension.
Despite the problem of the girl's future she had it in her heart
to wish that this singular claimant had never presented himself.
His liberality was obvious but--. She locked the slip of paper
away in the bureau with a feeling of vague uneasiness. But for
good or ill the matter was out of her hands. She had said all that
she could say. The rest lay with God.

"I do accept it," she said, "with all gratitude. It will enable us
to carry out a scheme that has long been our hope. Your generosity
will more than pave the way. I will send Gillian to you now."

She left him, more embarrassed than he had been at first, more
than ever dreading the task before him. He waited with a nervous
impatience that irritated himself.

Turning to the window he looked out into the dusk. The old trees
in the courtyard were almost indistinguishable. The rain dripped
again steadily, splashing the creeper that framed the casement. A
few lights showing dimly in the windows on the opposite side of
the quadrangle served only to intensify the gloom. The time
dragged. Fretfully he drummed with his fingers on the leaded
panes, his ears alert for any sound beyond the closed door. The
echo of a distant organ stole into the room and the soft solemn
notes harmonised with the melancholy pattering of the raindrops
and the gusts of wind that moaned fitfully around the house.

In a sudden revulsion of feeling the life he had mapped out
for himself seemed horrible beyond thought. He could not bear
it. It would be tying his hands and burdening himself with a
responsibility that would curtail his freedom and hamper him
beyond endurance. A great restlessness, a longing to escape from
the irksome tie, came to him. Solitude and open spaces; unpeopled
nature; wild desert wastes--he craved for them. The want was like
a physical ache. The desert--he drew his breath in sharply--the
hot shifting sand whispering under foot, the fierce noontide sun
blazing out of a brilliant sky, the charm of it! The fascination
of its false smiling surface, its treacherous beauty luring to
hidden perils called to him imperatively. The curse of Ishmael
that was his heritage was driving him as it had driven him many
times before. He was in the grip of one of the revolts against
restraint and civilisation that periodically attacked him. The
wander-hunger was in his blood--for generations it had sent
numberless ancestors into the lonely places of the world, and
against it ties of home were powerless. In early days to the
romantic glamour of the newly discovered Americas, later to the
silence of the frozen seas and to the mysterious depth of
unexplored lands the Cravens had paid a heavy toll. A Craven had
penetrated into the tangled gloom of the Amazon forests, and had
never returned. In the previous century two Cravens had succumbed
to the fascination of the North West Passage, another had vanished
in Central Asia. Barry's grandfather had perished in a dust storm
in the Sahara. And it was to the North African desert that his own
thoughts turned most longingly. Japan had satisfied him for a
time--but only for a time. Western civilisation had there obtruded
too glaringly, and he had admitted frankly to himself that it was
not Japan but O Hara San that kept him in Yokohama. The dark
courtyard and the faintly lighted windows faded. He saw instead a
tiny well-remembered oasis in Southern Algeria, heard the
ceaseless chatter of Arabs, the shrill squeal of a stallion, the
peevish grunt of a camel, and, rising above all other sounds, the
whine of the tackling above the well. And the smell--the cloying
smell that goes with camel caravans, it was pungent! He flung up
his head inhaling deeply, then realised that the scent that filled
the room was not the acrid smell of the desert but the penetrating
odour of incense filtering in through the opened door. It shut and
he turned reluctantly.

He saw at first only a pair of great brown eyes, staring almost
defiantly, set in a small pale face, that looked paler by contrast
with the frame of dark brown hair. Then his gaze travelled slowly
over the slender black-clad figure silhouetted against the
polished panels. His fear was substantiated. Not a child who could
be relegated to nurses and governesses, but a girl in the dawn of
womanhood. Passionately he cursed John Locke.

He felt a fool, idiotically tongue-tied. He had been prepared to
adopt a suitably paternal attitude towards the small child he
had expected. A paternal attitude in connection with this
self-possessed young woman was impossible, in fact ludicrous. For
the moment he seemed unable to cope with the situation. It was the
girl who spoke first. She came forward slowly, across the long
narrow room.

"I am Gillian Locke, _Monsieur_."




CHAPTER IV


On the cushioned window seat in her bedroom at Craven Towers
Gillian Locke sat with her arms wrapped round her knees waiting
for the summons to dinner. With Miss Craven and her guardian she
had left London that morning, arriving at the Towers in the
afternoon, and she was tired and excited with the events of the
day. She leant back against the panelled embrasure, her mind
dwelling on the last three crowded months they had spent in Paris
and London waiting until the house was redecorated and ready to
receive them. It had been for her a wonderful experience. The
novelty, the strangeness of it, left her breathless with the
feeling that years, not weeks, had rushed by. Already in the
realisation of the new life the convent days seemed long ago, the
convent itself to have receded into a far off past. And yet there
were times when she wondered whether she was dreaming, whether
waking would be inevitable and she would find herself once more in
the old dormitory to pray passionately that she might dream again.
And until tonight there had scarcely been time even to think, her
days had been full, at night she had gone to bed to sleep in happy
dreamlessness. The hotel bedrooms with their litter of trunks
suggesting imminent flight had held no restfulness. To Gillian the
transitory sensation had strained already over-excited nerves and
heightened the dreamlike feeling that made everything seem unreal.
But here, the visible evidences of travel removed, the deep
silence of a large country house penetrating her mind and
conducing to peace, she could think at last. The surroundings were
helpful. There was about the room an air of permanence which the
hotel bedrooms had never given, an atmosphere of abiding quiet
that soothed her. She was sensitive of an influence that was
wholly new to her and very sweet, that brought with it a feeling
of laughter and tears strangely mingled, that made the room appear
as no other room had ever done. It Was her room, and it had
welcomed her. It was like a big friendly silent person offering
mute reception, radiating repose. In a few hours the room had
become intimate, dear to her. She laughed happily--then checked at
a guilty feeling of treason against the grey old walls in Paris
that had so long sheltered her. She was not ungrateful, all her
life she would remember with gratitude the love and care she had
received. But the convent had been prison. Since her father had
left her there, a tiny child, she had inwardly rebelled; the life
was abhorrent to her, the restraint unbearable. With childish
pride she had hidden her feelings, living through a period of
acute misery with no hint to those about her of what she suffered.
And the habit of suppression acquired in childhood had grown with
her own development. As the years passed the limitations of the
convent became more perceptible. She felt its cramping influence
to the full, as if the walls were closing in to suffocate her, to
bury her alive before she had ever known a fuller freer life. She
had longed for expansion--ideas she could not formulate, desires
she could not express, crowded, jostled in her brain. She wanted a
wider outlook on life than the narrow convent windows offered.
Brief excursions into the world to the homes of her friends had
filled her with a yearning for freedom and for independence, for a
greater range of thought and action. Her artistic studies had
served to foster an unrest she struggled against bravely and to
conceal which she became daily more self-contained. Her reserve
was like a barrier about her. She was sweet and gentle to all
around her, but a little aloof and very silent. To the other girls
she had been a heroine of romance, puzzling mystery surrounded
her; to the Nuns an enigma. The Mother Superior, alone, had
arrived at a partial understanding, more than that even she could
not accomplish. Gillian loved her, but her reserve was stronger
than her love. Sitting now in the dainty English bedroom,
revelling in the warm beauty of the exquisite landscape that,
mellowed in the evening light, lay spread out beneath her eyes,
Gillian thought a little sadly of her parting with the Reverend
Mother. She had tried to hide the happiness that the strange
feeling of freedom gave her, to smother any look or word that
might wound the gentle sensibility of the frail robed woman whose
eyes were sad at the approaching separation. Her conscience smote
her that her own heart held no sadness. She had said very little,
nothing of the new life that lay ahead of her. She hid her hopes
of the future as jealously as she had hidden her longings in the
past, and she had left the convent as silently as she had lived in
it. She had driven back to the hotel with a sense of relief
predominating that it was all over, breathing deeply with a sigh
of relaxed tension. It seemed to her then as if she had learned to
breathe only within the last few days, as if the air itself was
lighter, more exhilarating.

From the convent her mind went back to earlier days. She thought of her
father, the handsome dissolute man, whose image had grown dim with
years. As a tiny child she had loved him passionately, the central
figure of her chequered and wandering little life--father and mother
in one, playmate and hero. Her recollection seemed to be of constant
travelling; of long hours spent in railway trains; of arrivals at
strange places in the dark night; of departures in the early dawn,
half awake--but always happy so long as the familiar arms held her
weary little body and there was the shabby old coat on which to pillow
her brown curls. A jumbled remembrance of towns and country villages;
of kind unknown women who looked compassionate and murmured over her
in a dozen different languages. It had all been a medley of impressions
and experiences--everything transient, nothing lasting, but the big
untidy man who was her all. And then the convent. For a few years
John Locke had reappeared at irregular intervals, and on the memory
of those brief visits she had lived until he came again. Then he had
ceased to come and his letters, grown short and few, full of vague
promises--unsatisfying--meagre, had stopped abruptly. At first she
had refused to admit to herself that he had forgotten, that she could
mean so little to him, that he would deliberately put her out of his
life. She had waited, excusing, trusting, until, heart-sick with
deferred hope, she had come to think of him as dead. She was old
enough then to realise her position and in spite of the love and
consideration surrounding her she had learned misery. Her popularity
even was a source of torment, for in the happy homes of her friends
she had felt more cruelly her own destitute loneliness.

When the lawyer's letter had come enclosing a few scrawled lines
written by her dying father she had felt that life could hold no
more bitterness. She had worshipped him--and he had abandoned her
callously. She was bone of his bone and he had made no effort even
for his own flesh. He had thrown her a burden on the convent that
sheltered her so willingly only for want of will power to conquer
the weakness that had devitalised brain and body. The thought
crushed her. As she read his confession, full of tardy remorse,
her proud heart had been sick with humiliation. She groped blindly
through a sea of despair, her faith broken, her trust gone. She
hid her sorrow and her shame, fulfilling her usual tasks,
following the ordinary routine--a little more silent, a little
more reserved--her eyes alone betraying the storm that was
overwhelming her. She had loved him so dearly--that was the sting.
She had guarded her memory of him so tenderly, weaving a thousand
extravagant tales about him, pinnacling him above all men, her
hero, her knight, her _preux chevalier._ And now she realised
that her memory was no memory, that she had built up a fantastic
figure of romance whose origin rested on nothing tangible, whose
elevation had been so lofty that his overthrow was demolition. Her
god had feet of clay. Her superman was nothing. All that she had
ever had, memory that was delusion, was taken from her. Woken
abruptly to the brutal truth she felt that she had nothing left to
cling to--a loneliness far greater than she had known before. Then
gradually her own honesty compelled her to admit her fantasy. The
dream man she had evolved had been of her own making, the virtues
with which she had endowed him bred of her own imagination. Of the
real man she knew nothing, and for the real man there dawned
slowly--though love for him had died--pity. It came to her,
passionately endeavouring to understand, that in the sheltered
life she led she had no knowledge of the temptations that beset a
man outside in the great world. Dimly she realised that some win
out--and some go under. He had failed. And it seemed to her that
on her had fallen his debt. She must take the place he had
forfeited in the universe, she must succeed where he had failed.
Her strength must rise out of his weakness. His honour was hers to
re-establish, given the opportunity. And the opportunity had been
given. She had waited for the coming of her unknown guardian with
a feeling of dull revolt against the degradation of being handed
over inexorably to the disposal and charity of a stranger. Though
she had not been told she had guessed, years ago, that money for
her maintenance was wanting. The kindly deception of the Mother
Superior had been ineffectual. Gillian knew she was a pauper. The
charity of the convent school had been hard to bear. The charity
of a stranger would be harder. She writhed with the humiliation of
it. She was nineteen--for two years she must go and be and endure
at the whim of an unknown. And what would he be like, this man
into whose hands her father had thrust her! What choice would John
Locke be capable of making--what love had he shown during these
last years that he should choose carefully and well? From among
what class of man, of the society into which he had sunk, would he
select one to give his daughter? He had written of "my old friend,
Barry Craven." The name conveyed nothing--the adjective admitted
of two interpretations. Which? Day and night she was haunted with
visions of old men--recollections of faces seen when driving with
her friends or visiting their homes; old men who had interested
her, old men from whom she had instinctively shrunk. What type of
man was it that was coming for her? There were times when her
courage deserted her and the constantly recurring question made
her nearly mad with fear. She was like a wild creature caught in a
trap, listening to the feet of the keeper nearing--nearing. She
had longed for the time when she could leave the Convent, she
clung to it now with dread at the thought of the future. The
London lawyer had written that Mr. Craven was returning from Japan
to assume his guardianship, and she had traced his route with
growing fear as the days slipped by--the keeper's tread coming
closer and closer. She had masked the terror the thought of him
inspired, preserving an outward apathy that seemed to imply
complete indifference. And in the end he had come sooner than she
expected, for they thought he would go first to London. One
morning she had learned he was in Paris, that very afternoon she
would know her fate. The day had been interminable. During his
interview with the Mother Superior she had paced the room where
she was waiting as it seemed for hours, her nerves at breaking
point. When the Reverend Mother came back she could have
shrieked aloud and her desperate eyes failed to interpret the
expression on the Nun's face; she tried to speak, a husky whisper
that died away inarticulately. Faintly she heard the gentle words of
encouragement and with an effort of pride she walked quickly to
the door of the visitors' room. There she paused, irresolute, and
the low peaceful roll of the organ echoing from the distant chapel
seemed to mock her. So often it had comforted, giving courage to
go forward--today its very peacefulness jarred; nerve-racked she
was out of tune with the atmosphere of calm tranquillity about
her. She felt alien--that more than ever she stood alone. Then
pride flamed afresh. With head held high and lips compressed she
went in. As he turned from the window it was his great height and
broad shoulders that struck her first--men of his physique were
rare in France--and, in the thought of a moment, the well cut
conventional morning coat had seemed absurd, and mentally she had
clothed his long limbs in damascened steel. Then she had seen that
he was young, how young she could not guess, but younger far than she
had imagined. As their eyes met the sombre tragedy in his had hurt her.
She divined a sorrow before which her own paled to nothingness and
quick pity killed fear. The sadness of his face lifted her suddenly
into full realisation of her womanhood. Compassion rose above self.
Instinctively she knew that the interview that was to her so momentous
was to him only an embarrassing interlude. Shyness remained but the
terror she had felt gave place to a feeling she had not then understood.
As quickly as possible he had taken her to the hotel, leaving to his
aunt all explanations that seemed necessary. And since then he had
remained consistently in the background, delegating his authority to
Miss Craven. But from the first his proximity had troubled her--she
was always conscious of his presence. Hypersensitive from her convent
upbringing she knew intuitively when he entered a room or left it.
Men were to her an unknown quantity; the few she had met--brothers
and cousins of school friends--had been viewed from a different
standpoint. Hedged about with rigid French convention there had been
no chance of acquaintance ripening into friendship--she had been merely
a schoolgirl among other girls, touching only the fringe of the most
youthful of the masculine element in the houses where she had stayed.
She had been unprepared for the change to the daily contact with a man
like Barry Craven. It would take time to accustom herself, to become
used to the continual masculine presence.

Miss Craven, to her nephew's relief, had taken the shy pale-faced
girl to her eccentric heart with a suddenness and enthusiasm that
had surprised herself.

And Gillian's reserve and pride had been unable to withstand the
whirlwind little lady. Miss Craven's personality took a strong
hold on her; she loved the woman, she admired the artist, and she
was quick to recognise the real feeling and deep kindness that lay
under brusque manner and quizzical speeches. She had good reason.
She glanced now round the big room. Everywhere were evidences of
lavish generosity, showered on her regardless of protest.
Gillian's eyes filled slowly with tears. It was all a fairy story,
too wonderful almost to be true. Why were they so good to her--how
would she ever be able to repay the kindness lavished on her? Her
thoughts were interrupted by the latest gift that rose out of his
basket with a sleepy yawn and stretching luxuriously came and laid
his head on her knee, looking up at her with sad brown eyes. She
had always loved animals, the possession of some dog had been an
ardent desire, and she hugged the big black poodle now with a
little sob.

"Mouston, you pampered person, have you ever been lonely? Can you
imagine what it is like to be made to feel that you _belong_
to somebody again?" She rubbed her cheek against his satiny head,
crooning over him, the dog thrilling to her touch with jerking
limbs and sharp half-stifled whines. It was her first experience
of ownership, of responsibility for a living creature that was
dependent on her and for which she was answerable. And it was
likely to prove an arduous responsibility. He was single-minded
and jealous in his allegiance; Miss Craven he tolerated
indifferently, of Craven he was openly suspicious. He followed
Gillian like a shadow and moped in her absence, yielding to
Yoshio, who had charge of him on such occasions, a resigned
obedience he gave to no other member of the household. Through
Mouston Gillian and Yoshio had become acquainted.

Mouston's affection this evening became over-enthusiastic and
threatening to fragile silks and laces. Gillian kissed the top
of his head, shook solemnly an insistent paw, and put him on one
side. She moved to the dressing table and inspected herself
critically in the big mirror. She looked with grave amusement.
Was that Gillian Locke? She wondered did a butterfly feel more
incongruous when it shed its dull grub skin. For so many years she
had worn the sombre garb of the convent schoolgirl, the change was
still new enough to delight and the natural woman within her
responded to the fascination of pretty clothing. The dark
draperies of the convent had palled, she had craved colour with an
almost starved longing.

The general reflection in the long glass satisfied, a more
detailed personal survey raised serious doubts. She had never
recognised the grace of her slender figure, the uncommon beauty of
her pale oval face--other types had appealed more, other colouring
attracted. She had studied her face often, disapprovingly. Once or
twice, lacking a model, she had essayed to reproduce her own
features. She had failed utterly. The faithful portraiture she
achieved for others was wanting. She was unable to express in her
own likeness the almost startling exposition of character that
distinguished her ordinary work. She had been her own limitation.
Her failure had puzzled her, causing a searching mental inquiry.
She had no knowledge herself of how her special gift took form,
the work grew involuntarily under her hand. She was aware of no
definite impression received, no attempt at soul analysis. Vaguely
she supposed that in some subtle mysterious way the character of
her sitter communicated itself, influencing her; in fact her best
work had often had the least care bestowed upon it. Did her
inability to transfer to canvas a living copy of her own face
argue that she herself was without character--had she failed
because there was in truth nothing to delineate? Or was it because
she sought to see something unreal--sought to control a purely
inherent impulse? It was a problem she had never solved.

She looked now at the mirrored figure with her usual disapproval,
great brown eyes scowling back at her from the glass, then made a
little obliterating movement with her hand and shook her head.
Appearance had never mattered before, but now she wanted so much
to please--to be a credit to the interest shown, to repay the time
and money spent upon her. Her eyes grew wistful as she leant
nearer to see if there were any tell-tale traces of tears, then
danced with sudden amusement as she picked up a powder puff and
dabbed tentatively.

"Oh, Gillian Locke, what would the Reverend Mother say!" she
murmured, and laughed.

The poodle, jealous for attention, leaped on to a chair beside
her, his paws on the plate glass slab scattering brushes and
bottles, and still laughing she smothered his damp eager nose with
powder until he sneezed disgusted protest.

With a conciliatory caress she left him to disarrange the dressing
table further, and went back to the window. Beneath her lawns
extended to a wide terrace, stone balustraded, from the centre of
which a long flight of steps led down to a formal rose garden
sheltered by a high yew hedge and backed by a little copse beyond
which the heavily timbered park stretched indefinitely in the
evening light. The sense of space fascinated her. She had always
longed for unimpeded views, for the stillness of the country. On
the smooth shaven lawns great trees were set like sentinels about
the house; fancifully she thought of them as living vigilant
keepers maintaining for centuries a perpetual guard--and smiled at
her childish imagination. Her pleasure in the prospect deepened.
Already the charm of the Towers had taken hold of her, from the
first moment she had loved it. Throughout the long railway journey
and during the five mile drive from the station, she had
anticipated, and the actuality had outstripped her anticipation.
The beauty of the park, the herds of grazing deer, had delighted
her; the old grey house itself had stayed her spellbound. She had
not imagined anything half so lovely, so impressively enduring.
She had seen nothing to compare with its fine proportions, with
the luxury of its setting. It differed utterly from the French
Chateaux where she had visited; there toil obtruded, vineyards
and rich fields of crops clustered close to the very walls of the
seigneur's dwellings, a source of wealth simply displayed; here
similar activities were banished to unseen regions, and scrupulously
kept avenues, close cut lawns and immaculate flower-beds formed
evidence of constant labour whose results charmed the eye but
were materially profitless. The formal grandeur appealed to her.
She was not altogether alien, she reflected, with a curious
smile--despite his subsequent downfall John Locke had sprung
from just such stock as the owner of this wonderful house. A
sudden panic of lateness interrupted her pleasure and she turned
from the window, calling to the dog. Her suite opened on to a
circular gallery--from which bedrooms opened--running round the
central portion of the house and overlooking the big square hall
which was lit from above by a lofty glazed dome; eastward and
westward stretched long rambling wings, a story higher than the
main block, crowned with the turrets that gave the house its name.

A low murmur of men's voices came from below, and leaning over
the balustrade she saw Craven and his agent standing talking
before the empty fireplace. Sudden shyness overcame her; her
guardian was still formidable, Peters she had seen for the first
time only a few hours ago when he had met them at the station--a
short broad-shouldered man inclining to stoutness, with thick
grey hair and close-pointed beard. To go down deliberately to
them seemed impossible. But while she hesitated in an agony of
self-consciousness Mouston precipitated the inevitable by dashing
on ahead down, the stairs and plunging into the bearskin hearthrug,
ploughing the thick fur with his muzzle and sneezing wildly. The
sense of responsibility outweighed shyness and she hurried after
him, but Peters anticipated her and already had the dog's unwilling
head firmly between his hands.

"What on earth has he got on his nose, Miss Locke?" he asked, in a
tone of wonder, but the keen blue eyes looking at her from under
bushy grey eyebrows were twinkling and her shyness was not proof
against his friendliness.

She dropped to her knees and flicked the offended organ with a
scrap of lace and lawn.

"Powder," she said gravely.

"You can have no idea," she added, looking up suddenly, "how
delightful it is to powder your nose when you have been brought up
in a convent. The Nuns consider it the height of depravity," and
she laughed, a ringing girlish outburst of amusement that Craven
had never yet heard. He looked at her as she knelt on the rug
soothing the poodle's outraged feelings and smiling at Peters who
was offering his own more adequate handkerchief. That laugh was a
revelation--in spite of her self-possession, of her reserve, she
was in reality only a girl, hardly more than a child, but
influenced by her quiet gravity he had forgotten the fact.

As he watched her a slight frown gathered on his face. It seemed
that Peters, in a few hours, had penetrated the barrier outside
which he, after months, still remained. With him she was always
shyly silent. On the few rare occasions in Paris and in London
when he had found himself alone with her she had shrunk into
herself and avoided addressing him; and he had wondered,
irritably, how much was natural diffidence and how much
due to convent training. But he had made no effort at further
understanding, for the past was always present dominating
inclinations and impulses--perpetual memory, jogging at his
elbow. There were days when the only relief was physical
exhaustion and he disappeared for hours to fight his devils in
solitude. And in any case he was not wanted, it was better in
every way for him to efface himself. There was nothing for him
to do--thanks to the improvidence of John Locke no business
connected with the trust. Miss Craven had taken complete
possession of Gillian and he held aloof, not attempting to
establish more intimate relations with his ward. But tonight,
with a fine inconsistency, it piqued him that she should respond
so readily to Peters. He knew he was a fool--it mattered not
one particle to him--Peters' magnetism was proverbial--but,
illogically, the frown persisted.

As if conscious of his scrutiny Gillian turned and met his
searching gaze. The colour flooded her face and she pushed the
dog aside and rose hastily to her feet. Shyness supervened again
and she was thankful for the arrival of Miss Craven, who was
breathless and apologetic.

"Late as usual! I shall be late when the last trump sounds. But
this time it was really not my fault. Mrs. Appleyard descended
upon me!--our old housekeeper, Gillian--and her tongue has
wagged for a solid hour by the clock. I am now _au fait_ with
everything that has happened at the Towers since I was here
last--do your ears burn, Peter?--metaphorically she has dragged
me at her heels from garrets to cellars and back to the garrets
again. She is pathetically pleased to have the house open once
more."

Still talking she led the way to the dining room. It was an
immense room, panelled like most of the house, the table an oasis
on a desert of Persian carpet, a huge fireplace predominating, and
some of the more valuable family portraits on the walls.

As Miss Craven entered she looked instinctively for the portrait
of her brother, which since his death had hung--following a family
custom--in a panel over the high carved mantelpiece. But it had
been removed and for it had been substituted a beautiful painting
of Barry's mother. She stopped abruptly in the middle of a
sentence. "An innovation?" she murmured to her nephew, with her
shrewd eyes on his face.

"A reparation," he answered shortly, as he moved to his chair. And
his tone made any further comment impossible. She sat down
thoughtfully and began her soup in silence, vaguely disturbed at
the departure from a precedent that had held for generations.
Unconventional and ultra-modern as she was she still clung to the
traditions of her family, and from time immemorial the portrait of
the last reigning Craven had hung over the fireplace in the big
dining room waiting to give place to its successor. It all seemed
bound up somehow with the terrible change that had taken place in
him since his return from Japan--a change she was beginning more
and more to connect with the man whose portrait had been banished,
as though unworthy, from its prominence. Unworthy indeed--but how
did Barry know? What had he learned in the country that had had
such a fatal attraction for his father? The old shameful story she
had thought buried for ever seemed rising like a horrible phantom
from the grave where it had lain so long hidden.

With a little shudder she turned resolutely from the painful
thoughts that came crowding in upon her and entered into animated
conversation with Peters.

Gillian, content to be unnoticed, looked about her with
appreciative interest; the big room, its sombre, rather formal
furniture and fine pictures, appealed to her. The arrangements
were in perfect harmony, nothing clashed or jarred, electric
lighting was carefully hidden and only wax candles burnt in heavy
silver candlesticks on the table.

The fascination of the old house was growing every moment more
insistent, like a spell laid on her. She gave herself up to it, to
the odd happiness it inspired. She felt it curiously familiar. A
strange feeling came to her--it was as if from childhood she had
been journeying and now come home. An absurd thought, but she
loved it. She had never had a home, but for the next two years she
could pretend. To pretend was easy. All her life she had lived in
a land of dreams, tenanted with shadowy inhabitants of her own
imagining--puppets who moved obedient to her will through all the
devious paths of make-believe; a spirit world where she ranged
free of the narrow walls that restricted her liberty. It had been
easy to pretend in the convent--how much easier here in the solid
embodiment of a dream castle and stimulated by the real human
affection for which her heart had starved. The love she had
hitherto known had been unsatisfying, too impersonal, too
restrained, too interwoven with mystical devotion. Mass Craven's
affection was of a hardier, more practical nature. Blunt candour
and sincerity personified, she did not attempt to disguise her
attachment. She had been attracted, had approved, and had finally
co-opted Gillian into the family. She had, moreover, great faith
in her own judgment. And to justify that faith Gillian would have
gone through fire and water.

She looked gratefully at the solid little figure sitting at
the foot of the table and a gleam of amusement chased the
seriousness from her eyes. Miss Craven was in the throes of a
heated discussion with Peters which involved elaborate diagrams
traced on the smooth cloth with a salt spoon, and as Gillian
watched she completed her design with a fine flourish and leant
back triumphant in her chair, rumpling her hair fantastically.
But the agent, unconvinced, fell upon her mercilessly and in a
moment she was bent forward again in vigorous protest, drumming
impatiently on the table with her fingers as he laughingly altered
her drawing. They were the best of friends and wrangled continually.
To Gillian it was all so fresh, so novel. Then her attention
veered. Throughout dinner Craven had been silent. When once
started on a discussion his aunt and Peters tore the controversy
amicably to tatters in complete absorption. He had not joined in
the argument. As always Gillian was too shy to address him of her
own accord, but she was acutely conscious of his nearness. She
deprecated her own attitude, yet silence was better than the banal
platitudes which were all she had to offer. Her range was so
restricted, his--who had travelled the world over--must be so
great. With the exception of one subject her knowledge was
negligible. But he too was an artist--hopeless to attempt that
topic, she concluded with swift contempt for her own limitations;
to offer the opinions of a convent-bred amateur to one who had
studied in famous Paris ateliers and was acquainted with the art
of many countries would be an impertinence. But yet she knew that
sometime she must break through the wall that her own diffidence
had built up; in the intimacy of country house life the
continuance of such an attitude would be both impossible and
ridiculous. Contritely she acknowledged that the tension between
them was largely her own fault, a disability due to training. But
she could not go through life sheltering behind that wholly
inadequate plea. If there was anything in her at all she must rise
above the conventions in which she had been reared; she had done
with the narrowness of the past, now she must think broadly,
expansively, in all things--even in the trivial matter of social
intercourse. A saving sense of humour sent a laugh bubbling into
her throat which nearly escaped. It was such a little thing, but
she had magnified it so greatly. What, after all, did it amount
to--the awkwardness of a schoolgirl very properly ignored by a
guardian who could not be other than bored with her society.
_Tant pis!_ She could at least try to be polite. She turned
with the heroic intention of breaking the ice and plunging into
conversation, banal though it might be. But her eyes did not
arrive at his face, they were caught and held by his hand, lying
on the white cloth, turning and twisting an empty wine-glass
between long strong fingers. Hands fascinated her. They were
indicative of character, testimonies of individual peculiarities.
She was sensitive to the impression they conveyed. With the
limited material available she had studied them--nuns' hands,
priests' hands, hands of the various inmates of the houses where
she had stayed, and the hands of the man who had taught her. From
him she had learned more than the mere rudiments of her art; under
his tuition a crude interest had developed into a definite study,
and as she sat looking at Barry Craven's hand a sentence from one
of his lectures recurred to her--"there are in some hands,
particularly in the case of men, characteristics denoting certain
passions and attributes that jump to the eye as forcibly as if
they were expressions of face."

Engaged in present study she forgot her original purpose, noting
the salient points of a fresh type, enumerating details that formed
the composite whole. A strong hand that could in its strength be
merciless--could it equally in its strength be merciful? The strange
thought came unexpectedly as she watched the thin stem of the wineglass
turning rapidly and then more slowly until, with a little tinkle, it
snapped as the hand clenched suddenly, the knuckles showing white
through the tanned skin. Gillian drew a quick breath. Had she been
the cause of the mishap--had she stared noticeably, and he been angry
at an impertinence? Her cheeks burned and in a misery of shyness she
forced her eyes to his face. Her contrition was needless. Heedless of
her he was looking at the splintered glass between his fingers with a
faint expression of surprise, as if his wandering thoughts were but
half recalled by the accident. For a moment he stared at the shattered
pieces--then laid them down indifferently.

Gillian smothered an hysterical inclination to laugh. He was so
totally negligent of her presence that even this little incident
had failed to make him sensible of her scrutiny. Immersed in his
thoughts he was very obviously miles away from Craven Towers and
the vicinity of a troublesome ward. And suddenly it hurt. She was
nothing to him but a shy _gauche_ girl whose very existence
was an embarrassment. The determination so bravely formed died
before his cold detachment. More than ever was speech impossible.

She shrugged faintly with a little pout. So, confident of his
preoccupation, she continued to study him. Had the homecoming
intensified the sadness of his eyes and deepened the lines
about his mouth?--were memories of the mother he had adored
sharpening tonight the look of suffering on his face? Or was her
imagination, over-excited, exaggerating what she saw and fancying
a great sorrow where there was only boredom? She pondered, and
had almost concluded that the latter was the saner explanation
when--watching--she saw a sudden spasm cross his face of such agony
that she caught her lip fiercely between her teeth to stifle an
exclamation. In the fleeting expression of a moment she had seen
the revelation of a soul in torment. She looked away hastily,
feeling dismayed at having trespassed. She had discovered a
secret wound. She sat tense, and a quick fear came lest the others
might have also seen. She glanced at them furtively. But the
argument was still unsettled, the tablecloth between them scored
and creased with conflicting sketches. She drew a sharp little
sigh of relief. Only she had noticed, and she did not matter. For
a few moments her thoughts ran riot until she pulled them up
frowningly. It was no business of hers--she had no right even
to speculate on his affairs. Angry with herself she turned for
distraction to the portraits on the walls--they at least would
offer no disturbing problem. But her determination to keep her
thoughts from her guardian met with a check at the outset for she
found herself staring at Barry Craven as she had visualised him
in that first moment of meeting--steel-clad. It was the picture
of a young man, dressed in the style of the Elizabethan period,
wearing a light inlaid cuirass and leaning negligently against a
stone balustrade, a hooded falcon on his wrist. The resemblance
to the owner of Craven Towers was remarkable--the same build,
the same haughty carriage of the head, the same features and
colouring; the mouth only of the painted gallant differed, for the
lips were not set sternly but curved in a singularly winning smile.
The portrait had recently been cleaned and the colours stood
out freshly. The pose of the figure was curiously unrestrained
for the period, a suggestion of energy--barely concealed by the
indolent attitude--broke through the conventional treatment of
the time, as if the painter had responded to an influence that had
overcome tradition. The whole body seemed to pulsate with life.
Gillian looked at it entranced; instinctively her eyes sought the
pictured hands. The one that held the falcon was covered with
an embroidered leather glove, but the other was bare, holding
a set of jesses. And even the hands were similar, the characteristics
faithfully transmitted. Peters' voice startled her. "You are looking
at the first Barry Craven, Miss Locke. It is a wonderful picture.
The resemblance is extraordinary, is it not?"

She looked up and met the agent's magnetic smile across the table.

"It is--extraordinary," she said slowly; "it might be a costume
portrait of Mr. Craven, except that in treatment the picture is so
different from a modern painting."

Peters laughed.

"The professional eye, Miss Locke! But I am glad that you admit
the likeness. I should have quarrelled horribly with you if you
had failed to see it. The young man in the picture," he went on,
warming to the subject as he saw the girl's interest, "was one of
the most romantic personages of his time. He lived in the reign of
Elizabeth and was poet, sculptor, and musician--there are two
volumes of his verse in the library and the marble Hermes in the
hall is his work. When he was seventeen he left the Towers to go
to court. He seems to have been universally beloved, judging from
various letters that have come down to us. He was a close friend
of Sir Philip Sidney and one of Spenser's numerous patrons. A
special favourite with Elizabeth--in fact her partiality seems to
have been a source of some embarrassment, according to entries in
his private journal. She knighted him for no particular reason
that has ever transpired, indeed it seems to have been a matter of
surprise to himself, for he records it in his journal thus:

"'--dubbed knight this day by Gloriana. God He knoweth why,
but not I.' He was an idealist and visionary, with the power of
putting his thoughts into words--his love poems are the most
beautiful I have ever read, but they are quite impersonal. There
is no evidence that his love was ever given to any 'faire ladye.'
No woman's name was ever connected with his, and from his
detached attitude towards the tender passion he earned, in a
fantastical court, the euphuistic appellation of _L'amant d' Amour._
Quite suddenly, after ten years in the queen's household, he
fitted out an expedition to America. He gave no reason. Distaste
for the artificial existence prevailing at Court, sorrow at the
death of his friend Sidney, or a wander-hunger fed on the tales
brought home by the numerous merchant adventurers may have been
the cause of this surprising step. His decision provoked dismay
among his friends and brought a furious tirade from Elizabeth who
commanded him to remain near her. But in spite of royal oaths and
entreaties--more of the former than the latter--he sailed to
Virginia on a land expedition. Two letters came from him during
the next few years, but after that--silence. His fate is not
known. He was the first of many Cravens to vanish into oblivion
searching for new lands." The pleasant voice hesitated and dropped
to a lower, more serious note. And Gillian was puzzled at the
sudden anxiety that clouded the agent's smiling blue eyes. She had
listened with eager interest. It was history brought close and
made alive in its intimate connection with the house. The dream
castle was more wonderful even than she had thought. She smiled
her thanks at Peters, and drew a long breath.

"I like that," and looking at the picture again, "the Lover of
Love!" she repeated softly; "it's a very beautiful idea."

"A very unsatisfactory one for any poor soul who may have been
fool enough to lose her heart to him." Miss Craven's voice was
caustic.

"I have often wondered if any demoiselle 'pined in a green and
yellow melancholy for his sake,' she added, rising from the table.

"Reason enough, if he knew of it, for going to Virginia," said
Craven, with a hard laugh. "The family traditions have never
tended to undue consideration of the weaker sex."

"Barry, you are horrible!"

"Possibly, my dear aunt, but correct," he replied coolly, crossing
the room to open the door. "Even Peter, who has the family history
at his fingers' ends, cannot deny it." His voice was provocative
but Peters, beyond a mildly sarcastic "--thank you for the 'even,'
Barry--" refused to be drawn.

Her nephew's words would formerly have aroused a storm of
indignant protest from Miss Craven, touched in a tender spot. But
now some intuition warned her to silence. She put her arm through
Gillian's and left the room without attempting to expostulate.

In the drawing room she sat down to a patience table, lit a
cigarette, rumpled her hair, and laid out the cards frowningly.
More than ever was she convinced that in the two years he had been
away some serious disaster had occurred. His whole character
appeared to have undergone a change. He was totally different. The
old Barry had been neither hard nor cynical, the new Barry was
both. In the last few weeks she had had ample opportunity for
judging. She perceived that a heavy shadow lay upon him darkening
his home-coming--she had pictured it so very differently, and she
sighed over the futility of anticipation. His happiness meant to
her so much that she raged at her inability to help him. Until he
spoke she could do nothing. And she knew that he would never
speak. The nightly occupation lost its usual zest, so she shuffled
the cards absently and began a fresh game.

Gillian was on the hearthrug, Houston's head in her lap. She leant
against Miss Craven's chair, dreaming as she had dreamt in the old
convent until the sudden lifting of the dog's head under her hands
made her aware of Peters standing beside her. He looked down
silently on the card table for a few moments, pointed with a
nicotine-stained finger to a move Miss Craven had missed and then
wandered across the room and sat down at the piano. For a while
his hands moved silently over the keys, then he began to play, and
his playing was exquisite. Gillian sat and marvelled. Peters and
music had seemed widely apart. He had appeared so essentially a
sportsman; in spite of the literary tendency that his sympathetic
account of the Elizabethan Barry Craven had suggested she had
associated him with rougher, more physical pursuits. He was
obviously an out-door man; a gun seemed a more natural complement
to his hands than the sensitive keys of a piano, his thick rather
clumsy fingers manifestly incompatible with the delicate touch
that was filling the room with wonderful harmony. It was a check
to her cherished theory which she acknowledged reluctantly. But
she forgot to theorise in the sheer joy of listening.

"Why did he not make music a career?" she whispered, under cover
of some crashing chords. Miss Craven smiled at her eager face.

"Can you see Peter kow-towing to concert directors, and grimacing
at an audience?" she replied, rescuing a king from her rubbish
heap.

With an answering smile Gillian subsided into her former position.
Music moved her deeply and her highly strung artistic temperament
was responding to the beauty of Peters' playing. It was a Russian
folk song, plaintive and simple, with a curious minor refrain like
the sigh of an aching heart--wild sad harmony with pain in it that
gripped the throat. Swayed by the sorrow-haunted music a wave of
foreboding came over her, a strange indefinite fear that was
formless but that weighed on her like a crushing burden. The
happiness of the last few weeks seemed suddenly swamped in the
recollection of the misery rampant in the world. Who, if their
inmost hearts were known, were truly happy? And her thoughts,
becoming more personal, flitted back over the desolate days of her
own sad girlhood and then drifted to the tragedy of her father.
Then, with a forward leap that brought her suddenly to the
present, she thought of the sorrow she had seen on Craven's face
in that breathless moment at dinner time. Was there only sadness
in the world? The brooding brown eyes grew misty. A passionate
prayer welled up in her heart that complete happiness might touch
her once, if only for a moment.

Then the music changed and with it the girl's mood. She gave her
head a little backward jerk and blinked the moisture from her eyes
angrily. What was the matter with her? Surely she was the most
ungrateful girl in the universe. If there was sorrow in the world
for her then it must be of her own making. She had been shown
almost unbelievable kindness, nothing had been omitted to make her
happy. The contrast of her life only a few weeks ago and now was
immeasurable. What more did she want? Was she so selfish that she
could even think of the unhappiness that was over? Shame filled
her, and she raised her eyes to the woman beside her with a sudden
rush of gratitude and love. But Miss Craven, interested at last in
her game, was blind to her surroundings, and with a little smile
Gillian turned her attention to the silent occupant of the chair
near her. Craven had come into the room a few minutes before. He
was leaning back listlessly, one hand shading his face, a
neglected cigarette dangling from the other. She looked at him
long and earnestly, wondering, as she always wondered, what
association there had been between him and such a man as her
father--what had induced him to take upon himself the burden that
had been laid upon him. And her cheeks grew hot again at the
thought of the encumbrance she was to him. It was preposterous
that he should be so saddled!

She stifled a sigh and her eyes grew dreamy as she fell to
thinking of the future that lay before her. And as she planned
with eager confidence her hand moved soothingly over the dog's
head in measure to the languorous waltz that Peters was playing.

After a sudden unexpected chord the player rose from the piano and
joined the circle at the other end of the room. Miss Craven was
shuffling vigorously. "Thank you, Peter," she said, with a smiling
nod, "it's like old times to hear you play again. Gillian thinks
you have missed your vocation, she would like to see you at the
Queen's Hall."

Peters laughed at the girl's blushing protest and sat down near
the card table. Miss Craven paused in a deal to light a fresh
cigarette.

"What's the news in the county?" she asked, adding for Gillian's
benefit: "He's a walking chronicle, my dear."

Peters laughed. "Nothing startling, dear lady. We have been a
singularly well-behaved community of late. Old Lacy of Holmwood
is dead, Bill Lacy reigns in his stead and is busy cutting down
oaks to pay for youthful indiscretions--none of 'em very fierce
when all's said and done. The Hamer-Banisters have gone under
at last--more's the pity--and Hamer is let to some wealthy
Australians who are possessed apparently of unlimited cash,
a most curious phraseology, and an assurance which is beautiful
to behold. They had good introductions and Alex has taken them
up enthusiastically--there are kindred tastes."

"Horses, I presume. How are the Horringfords?"

"Much as usual," replied Peters. "Horringford is absorbed in
things Egyptian, and Alex is on the warpath again," he added
darkly.

Miss Craven grinned.

"What is it this time?"

Peters' eyebrows twitched quaintly.

"Socialism!" he chuckled, "a brand new, highly original conception
of that very elastic term. I asked Alex to explain the principles
of this particular organization and she was very voluble and
rather cryptic. It appears to embrace the rights of man, the
elevation of the masses, the relations between landlord and
tenant, the psychological deterioration of the idle rich--"

"Alex and psychology--good heavens!" interposed Miss Craven, her
hands at her hair, "and the amelioration of the downtrodden poor,"
continued Peters. "It doesn't sound very original, but I'm told
that the propaganda is novel in the extreme. Alex is hard at work
among their own people," he concluded, leaning back in his chair
with a laugh.

"But--the downtrodden poor! I thought Horringford was a model
landlord and his estates an example to the kingdom."

"Precisely. That's the humour of it. But a little detail like that
wouldn't deter Alex. It will be an interest for the summer, she's
always rather at a loose end when there's no hunting. She had
taken up this socialistic business very thoroughly, organizing
meetings and lectures. A completely new scheme for the upbringing
of children seems to be a special sideline of the campaign. I'm
rather vague there--I know I made Alex very angry by telling her
that it reminded me of intensive market gardening. That Alex has
no children of her own presents no difficulty to her--she is full
of the most beautiful theories. But theories don't seem to go down
very well with the village women. She was routed the other day by
the mother of a family who told her bluntly to her face she didn't
know what she was talking about--which was doubtless perfectly
true. But the manner of telling seems to have been disagreeable
and Alex was very annoyed and complained to Thomson, the new
agent. He, poor chap, was between the devil and the deep sea, for
the tenants had also been complaining that they were being
interfered with. So he had to go to Horringford and there was a
royal row. The upshot of it was that Alex rang me up on the
'phone this morning to tell me that Horringford was behaving like
a bear, that he was so wrapped up in his musty mummies that he
hadn't a spark of philanthropy in him, and that she was coming
over to lunch tomorrow to tell me all about it--she's delighted to
hear that the house is open again, and will come on to you for
tea, when you will doubtless get a second edition of her woes.
Half-an-hour later Horringford rang me up to say that Alex had
been particularly tiresome over some new crank which had set
everybody by the ears, that Thomson was sending in a resignation
daily, altogether there was the deuce to pay, and would I use my
influence and talk sense to her. It appears he is working at high
pressure to finish a monograph on one of the Pharaohs and was
considerably ruffled at being interrupted."

"If he cared a little less for the Pharaohs and a little more for
Alex--" suggested Miss Craven, blowing smoke rings thoughtfully.
Peters shook his head.

"He did care--that's the pity of it," he said slowly, "but what
can you expect?--you know how it was. Alex was a child married
when she should have been in the schoolroom, without a voice in
the matter. Horringford was nearly twenty years her senior, always
reserved and absorbed in his Egyptian researches. Alex hadn't an
idea in the world outside the stables. Horringford bored her
infinitely, and with Alex-like honesty she did not hesitate to
tell him so. They hadn't a thought in common. She couldn't see the
sterling worth of the man, so they drifted apart and Horringford
retired more than ever into his shell."

"And what do you propose to do, Peter?" Craven's sudden question
was startling, for he had not appeared to be listening to the
conversation.

Peters lit a cigarette and smoked for a few moments before
answering. "I shall listen to all Alex has to say," he said at
last, "then I shall tell her a few things I think she ought to
know, and I shall persuade her to ask Horringford to take her with
him to Egypt next winter."

"Why?"

"Because Horringford in Egypt and Horringford in England are two
very different people. I know--because I have seen. It's an idea,
it may work. Anyhow it's worth trying."

"But suppose her ladyship does not succumb to your persuasive
tongue?"

"She will--before I've done with her," replied Peters grimly, and
then he laughed. "I guessed from what she said this morning that
she was a little frightened at the hornet's nest she had raised. I
imagine she won't be sorry to run away for a while and let things
settle down. She can ease off gently in the meantime and give
Egypt as an excuse for finally withdrawing."

"You think Alex is more to blame than Horringford?" said Miss
Craven, with a note of challenge in her voice.

Peters shrugged. "I blame them both. But above all I blame the
system that has been responsible for the trouble."

"You mean that Alex should have been allowed to choose her own
husband? She was such a child--"

"And Horringford was such a devil of a good match," interposed
Craven cynically, moving from his chair to the padded fireguard.
Gillian was sitting on the arm of Miss Craven's chair, sorting the
patience cards into a leather case. She looked up quickly. "I
thought that in England all girls choose their own husbands, that
they marry to please themselves, I mean," she said in a puzzled
voice.

"Theoretically they do, my dear," replied Miss Craven, "in
practice numbers do not. The generality of girls settle their own
futures and choose their own husbands. But there are still many
old-fashioned people who arrogate to themselves the right of
settling their daughters' lives, who have so trained them that
resistance to family wishes becomes almost an impossibility. A
good suitor presents himself, parental pressure is brought to
bear--and the deed is done. Witness the case of Alex. In a few
years she probably would have chosen for herself, wisely. As it
was, marriage had never entered her head."

"She couldn't have chosen a better man," said Peters warmly, "if
he had only been content to wait a year or two--"

"Alex would probably have eloped with a groom or a circus rider
before she reached years of discretion!" laughed Miss Craven. "But
it's a difficult question, the problem of husband choosing," she
went on thoughtfully. "Being a bachelor I can discuss it with
perfect equanimity. But if in a moment of madness I had married
and acquired a houseful of daughters, I should have nervous
prostration every time a strange man showed his nose inside the
door."

"You don't set us on a very high plane, dear lady," said Peters
reproachfully.

"My good soul, I set you on no plane at all--know too much about
you!" she smiled. Peters laughed. "What's your opinion, Barry?"

Since his one interruption Craven had been silent, as if the
discussion had ceased to interest him. He did not answer Peters'
question for some time and when at last he spoke his voice was
curiously strained. "I don't think my opinion counts for very
much, but it seems to me that the woman takes a big risk either
way. A man never knows what kind of a blackguard he may prove in
circumstances that may arise."

An awkward pause followed. Miss Craven kept her eyes fixed on the
card table with a feeling of nervous apprehension that was new to
her. Her nephew's words and the bitterness of his tone seemed
fraught with hidden meaning, and she racked her brains to find a
topic that would lessen the tension that seemed to have fallen on
the room. But Peters broke the silence before it became
noticeable. "The one person present whom it most nearly concerns
has not given us her view. What do you say, Miss Locke?"

Gillian flushed faintly. It was still difficult to join in a
general conversation, to remember that she might at any moment be
called upon to put forward ideas of her own.

"I am afraid I am prejudiced. I was brought up in a convent--in
France," she said hesitatingly. "Then you hold with the French
custom of arranged marriages?" suggested Peters. Her dark eyes
looked seriously into his. "I think it is--safer," she said
slowly.

"And consequently, happier?" The colour deepened in her face.
"Oh, I don't know. I do not understand English ways. I can speak
only of France. We talked of it in the convent--naturally, since it
was forbidden, _que voulez vous?_" she smiled. "Some of my
friends were married. Their parents arranged the marriages.
It seems that--" she stammered and went on hurriedly--"that there
is much to be considered in choosing a husband, much that--girls
do not understand, that only older people know. So it is perhaps
better that they should arrange a matter which is so serious and
so--so lasting. They must know more than we do," she added
quietly.

"And are your friends happy?" asked Miss Craven bluntly.

"They are content."

Miss Craven snorted. "Content!" she said scornfully. "Marriage
should bring more than contentment. It's a meagre basis on which
to found a life partnership."

A shadow flitted across the girl's face.

"I had a friend who married for love," she said slowly. "She
belonged to the old noblesse, and her family wished her to make
a great marriage. But she loved an artist and married him in spite
of all opposition. For six months she was the happiest girl in
France--then she found out that her husband was unfaithful.
Does it shock you that I speak of it--we all knew in the convent.
She went to Capri soon afterwards, to a villa her father had given
her, and one morning she went out to swim--it was a daily habit,
she could do anything in the water. But that morning she swam out
to sea--and she did not come back." The low voice sank almost to
a whisper. Miss Craven looked up incredulously. "Do you mean
she deliberately drowned herself?" Gillian made a little gesture of
evasion. "She was very unhappy," she said softly. And in the silence
that followed her troubled gaze turned almost unconsciously to
her guardian. He had risen and was standing with his hands in his
pockets staring straight in front of him, rigidly still. His attitude
suggested complete detachment from those about him, as if his
spirit was ranging far afield leaving the big frame empty, impenetrable
as a figure of stone. She was sensitive to his lack of interest. She
regretted having expressed opinions that she feared were immature
and valueless. A quick sigh escaped her, and Miss Craven,
misunderstanding, patted her shoulder gently. "It's a very sad little
story, my dear."

"And one that serves to confirm your opinion that a girl does well
to accept the husband who is chosen for her, Miss Locke?" asked
Peters abruptly, as he glanced at his watch and rose to his feet.

Gillian joined in the general move.

"I think it is--safer," she said, as she had said before, and
stooped to rouse the sleeping poodle.




CHAPTER V


Miss Craven was sitting alone in the library at the Towers. She had
been reading, but the book had failed to hold her attention and lay
unheeded on her lap while she was plunged in a profound reverie.

She sat very still, her usually serene face clouded, and once or twice a
heavy sigh escaped her.

The short November day was drawing in and though still early afternoon
it was already growing dark. The declining light was more noticeable in
the library than elsewhere in the house--a sombre room once the morning
sun had passed; long and narrow and panelled in oak to a height of about
twelve feet, above which ran a gallery reached by a hammered iron
stairway, it housed a collection of calf and vellum bound books which
clothed the walls from the floor of the gallery to within a few feet of
the lofty ceiling. On the fourth side of the room, whither the gallery
did not extend, three tall narrow windows overlooked the drive. The
furniture was scanty and severely Jacobean, having for more than two
hundred years remained practically intact; a ponderous writing table, a
couple of long low cabinets, and half a dozen cavernous armchairs
recushioned to suit modern requirements of ease. Some fine old bronzes
stood against the panelled walls. There was about the room a settled
peacefulness. The old furniture had a stately air of permanence. The
polished panels, and, above, the orderly ranks of ancient books
suggested durability; they remained--while generations of men came and
passed, transient figures reflected in the shining oak, handling for a
few brief years the printed treasures that would still be read centuries
after they had returned to their dust.

The spirit of the house seemed embodied in this big silent room that was
spacious and yet intimate, formal and yet friendly.

It was Miss Craven's favourite retreat. The atmosphere was sympathetic.
Here she seemed more particularly in touch with the subtle influence of
family that seemed to pervade the whole house. In most of the rooms it
was perceptible, but in the library it was forceful.

The house and the family--they were bound up inseparably.

For hundreds of years, in an unbroken line, from father to son ... from
father to son.... Miss Craven sat bolt upright to the sound of an
unmistakable sob. She looked with amazement at two tears blistering the
page of the open book on her knee. She had not knowingly cried since
childhood. It was a good thing that she was alone she thought, with a
startled glance round the empty room. She would have to keep a firmer
hold over herself than that. She laughed a little shakily, choked, blew
her nose vigorously, and walked to the middle window. Outside was stark
November. The wind swept round the house in fierce gusts before which
the big bare-branched trees in the park swayed and bowed, and trains of
late fallen leaves caught in a whirlwind eddied skyward to scatter widely
down again.

Rain lashed the window panes. Yet even when storm-tossed the scene had
its own peculiar charm. At all seasons it was lovely.

Miss Craven looked at the massive trees, beautiful in their clean
nakedness, and wondered how often she would see them bud again.
Frowning, she smothered a rising sigh and pressing closer to the window
peered out more attentively. Eastward and westward stretched long
avenues that curved and receded soon from sight. The gravelled space
before the house was wide; from it two shorter avenues encircling a
large oval paddock led to the stables, built at some distance facing the
house, but hidden by a belt of firs.

For some time Miss Craven watched, but only a game-keeper passed, a
drenched setter at his heels, and with a little shiver she turned back
to the room. She moved about restlessly, lifting books to lay them down
immediately, ransacking the cabinets for prints that at a second glance
failed to interest, and examining the bronzes that she had known from
childhood with lengthy intentness as if she saw them now for the first
time.

A footman came and silently replenished the fire. Her thoughts,
interrupted, swung into a new channel. She sat down at the writing table
and drawing toward her a sheet of paper slowly wrote the date. Beyond
that she did not get. The ink dried on the pen as she stared at the
blank sheet, unable to express as she wished the letter she had intended
to write.

She laid the silver holder down at last with a hopeless gesture and her
eyes turned to a bronze figure that served as a paper weight. It was a
piece of her own work and she handled it lovingly with a curiously sad
smile until a second hard sob broke from her and pushing it away she
covered her face with her hands.

"Not for myself, God knows it's not for myself," she whispered, as if in
extenuation. And mastering herself with an effort she made a second
attempt to write but at the end of half a dozen words rose impatiently,
crumpled the paper in her hand and walking to the fireplace threw it
among the blazing logs.

She watched it curl and discolour, the writing blackly distinct, and
crumble into ashes. Then from force of habit she searched for a
cigarette in a box on the mantelpiece, but as she lit it a sudden
thought arrested her and after a moment's hesitation the cigarette
followed the half--written letter into the fire.

With an impatient shrug she went back to an arm chair and again tried to
read, but though her eyes mechanically followed the words on the printed
page she did not notice what she was reading and laying the book down
she gave up all further endeavour to distract her wandering thoughts.
They were not pleasant and when, a little later, the door opened she
turned her head expectantly with a sigh of relief. Peters came in
briskly.

"I've come to inquire," he said laughing, "the family pew held me in
solitary state this morning. Time was when I never minded, but this last
year has spoiled me. I was booked for lunch but I came as soon as I
could. Nobody ill, I hope?"

Miss Craven looked at him for a moment before answering as he stood with
his back to the fire, his hands clasped behind him, his face ruddy with
the wind and rain, his keen blue eyes on hers, reliable, unchanging. It
was a curious chance that had brought him--just at that moment. The
temptation to make an unusual confidence rose strongly. She had known
him and trusted him for more years than she cared to remember. How much
to say? Indecision held her.

"You are always thoughtful, Peter," she temporised. "I am afraid there
is no excuse," with a little smile; "Barry rode off somewhere quite
early this morning and Gillian went yesterday to the Horringfords. I
expect her back to-day in time for tea. For myself, I had gout or
rheumatism or the black dog on my back, I forget which! Anyhow, I stayed
at home." She laughed and pointed to the cigarettes. He took one,
tapping it on his thumbnail.

"You were alone. Why didn't you 'phone? I should have been glad to
escape the Australians. They are enormously kind, but somewhat--er--
overwhelming," he added with a quick laugh.

"My dear man, be thankful I never thought of it. I've been like a bear
with a sore head all day." She looked past him into the fire, and struck
by a new note in her voice he refrained from comment, smoking slowly and
luxuriating in the warmth after a cold wet drive in an open motor. He
never used a closed car. But some words she had used struck him. "Barry
is riding--?" with a glance at the storm raging outside.

"Yes. He had breakfast at an unearthly hour and went off early. Weather
seems to make no difference to him, but he will be soaked to the skin."

"He's tough," replied Peters shortly. "I thought he must be out. As I
came in just now Yoshio was hanging about the hall, watching the drive.
Waiting for him, I suppose," he added, flicking a curl of ash into the
fire. "He's a treasure of a valet," he supplemented conversationally.
But Miss Craven let the observation pass. She was still staring into the
leaping flames, drumming with her fingers on the arms of the chair. Once
she tried to speak but no words came. Peters waited. He felt
unaccountably but definitely that she wished him to wait, that what was
evidently on her mind would come with no prompting from him. He felt in
her attitude a tension that was unusual--to-day she was totally unlike
herself. Once or twice only in the course of a lifelong friendship she
had shown him her serious side. She had turned to him for help then--he
seemed presciently aware that she was turning to him for help now. He
prided himself that he knew her as well as she knew herself and he
understood the effort it would cost her to speak. That he guessed the
cause of her trouble was no short cut to getting that trouble uttered.
She would take her own time, he could not go half-way to meet her. He
must stand by and wait. When had he ever done anything else at Craven
Towers? His eyes glistened curiously in the firelight, and he rammed his
hands down into his jacket pockets with abrupt jerkiness. Suddenly Miss
Craven broke the silence.

"Peter--I'm horribly worried about Barry," the words came with a rush.
He understood her too well to cavil.

"Dear lady, so am I," he replied with a promptness that did not console.

"Peter, what is it?" she went on breathlessly. "Barry is utterly
changed. You see it as well as I. I don't understand--I'm all at sea--I
want your help. I couldn't discuss him with anybody else, but you--you
are one of us, you've always been one of us. Fair weather or foul,
you've stood by us. What we should have done without you God only knows.
You care for Barry, he's as dear to you as he is to me, can't you do
something? The suffering in his face--the tragedy in his eyes--I wake up
in the night seeing them! Peter, can't you _do_ something?" She was
beside him, clutching at the mantel-shelf, shaking with emotion. The
sight of her unnerved, almost incoherent, shocked him. He realised the
depth of the impression that had been made upon her--deep indeed to
produce such a result. But what she asked was impossible. He made a
little negative gesture and shook his head.

"Dear lady, I can't do anything. And I wonder whether you know how it
hurts to have to say so? No son could be dearer to me than Barry--for
the sake of his mother--" his voice faltered momentarily, "but the fact
remains--he is not my son. I am only his agent. There are certain things
I cannot do and say, no matter how great the wish," he added with a
twisted smile.

Miss Craven seemed scarcely to be listening. "It happened in Japan," she
asserted in fierce low tones. "Japan! Japan!" she continued vehemently,
"how much more sorrow is that country to bring to our family! It happened
in Japan and whatever it was--Yoshio knows! You spoke of him just now.
You said he was hanging about--waiting--watching. Peter, he's doing it
all the time! He watches continually. Barry never has to send for
him--he's always there, waiting to be called. When Barry goes out the
man is restless until he comes in again--haunting the hall--it gets on
my nerves. Yet there is nothing I can actually complain of. He doesn't
intrude, he is as noiseless as a cat and vanishes if he sees you, but
you know that just out of sight he's still there--waiting--listening.
Peter, what is he waiting for? I don't think that it is apparent to the
rest of the household, I didn't notice it myself at first. But a few
months ago something happened and since then I don't seem able to get
away from it. It was in the night, about two o'clock; I was wakeful and
couldn't sleep. I thought if I read I might read myself sleepy. I hadn't
a book in my room that pleased me and I remembered a half-finished novel
I had left in the library. I didn't take a light--I know every turn in
the Towers blindfold. As you know, to reach the staircase from my room
I have to pass Barry's door, and at Barry's door I fell over something
in the darkness--something with hands of steel that saved me from an
awkward tumble and hurried me down the passage and into the moonlit
gallery before I could find a word of expostulation. Yoshio of course.
I was naturally startled and angry in consequence. I demanded an
explanation and after a great deal of hesitation he muttered something
about Barry wanting him--which is ridiculous on the face of it. If
Barry had really wanted him he would have been inside the room, not
crouched outside on the door mat. He seemed very upset and kept begging
me to say nothing about it. I don't remember how he put it but he
certainly conveyed the impression that it would not be good for Barry
to know. I don't understand it--Barry trusts him implicitly--and yet
this.... I'm afraid, and I've never been afraid in my life before." The
little break in her voice hurt him. He felt curiously unable to cope
with the situation. Her story disturbed him more than he cared to let
her see in her present condition of unwonted agitation. Twice in the
past they had stood shoulder to shoulder through a crisis of sufficient
magnitude and she had showed then a cautious judgment, a reliability of
purpose that had been purely masculine in its strength and sanity. She
had been wholly matter-of-fact and unimaginative, unswayed by petty
trivialities and broad in her decision. She had displayed a levelness of
mind which had almost excluded feeling and which had enabled him to deal
with her as with another man, confident of her understanding and the
unlikelihood of her succumbing unexpectedly to ordinary womanly
weaknesses. He had thought that he knew her thoroughly, that no
circumstance that might arise could alter characteristics so set and
inherent. But to-day her present emotion which had come perilously near
hysteria, showed her in a new light that made her almost a stranger. He
was a little bewildered with the discovery. It was incredible after all
these years, just as if an edifice that he had thought strongly built of
stone had tumbled about his ears like a pack of cards. He could hardly
grasp it. He felt that there was something behind it all--something more
than she admitted. He was tempted to ask definitely but second
reflection brought the conviction that it would be a mistake, that it
would be taking an unfair advantage. Sufficient unto the day--his
present concern was to help her regain a normal mental poise. And to do
that he must ignore half of what her suggestions seemed to imply. He
felt her breakdown acutely, he must say nothing that would add to her
distress of mind. It was better to appear obtuse than to concur too
heartily in fears, a recollection of which in a saner moment he knew
would be distasteful to her. She would never forgive herself--the less
she had to forget the better. She trusted him or she would never have
spoken at all. That he knew and he was honoured by her confidence. They
had always been friends, but in her weakness he felt nearer to her than
ever before. She was waiting for him to speak. He chose the line that
seemed the least open to argument. He spoke at last, evenly, unwilling
alike to seem incredulous or overanxious, his big steady hand closing
warmly over her twitching fingers.

"I don't think there is any cause--any reason to doubt Yoshio's fidelity.
The man is devoted to Barry. His behaviour certainly sounds--curious, but
can be attributed I am convinced to over-zealousness. He is an alien in a
strange land, cut off from his own natural distractions and amusements,
and with time on his hands his devotion to his master takes a more
noticeable form than is usual with an ordinary English man-servant.
That he designs any harm I cannot believe. He has been with Barry a
long time--on the several occasions when he stayed with him at your
house in London did you notice anything in his behaviour then similar
to the attitude you have observed recently? No? Then I take it that it
is due to the same anxiety that we ourselves have felt since Barry's
return. Only in Yoshio's case it is probably based on definite knowledge,
whereas ours is pure conjecture. Barry has undoubtedly been up against
something--momentous. Between ourselves we can admit the fact frankly.
It is a different man who has come back to us--and we can only carry on
and notice nothing. He is trying to forget something. He has worked like
a nigger since he came home, slogging away down at the estate office as
if he had his bread to earn. He does the work of two men--and he hates
it. I see him sometimes, forgetful of his surroundings, staring out of
the window, and the look on his face brings a confounded lump into my
throat. Thank God he's young--perhaps in time--" he shrugged and broke
off inconclusively, conscious of the futility of platitudes. And they
were all he had to offer. There was no suggestion he could make, nothing
he could do. It was repetition of history, again he had to stand by and
watch suffering he was powerless to aid, powerless to relieve. The mother
first and now the son--it would seem almost as if he had failed both.
The sense of helplessness was bitter and his face was drawn with pain
as he stared dumbly at the window against which the storm was beating
with renewed violence. The sight of the angry elements brought almost
a feeling of relief; it would be something that he could contend with
and overcome, something that would go towards mitigating the galling
sense of impotence that chafed him. He felt the room suddenly stifling,
he wanted the cold sting of the rain against his face, the roar of the
wind in the trees above his head. Abruptly he buttoned his jacket in
preparation for departure. Miss Craven pulled herself together. She
laid a detaining hand on his arm. "Peter," she said slowly, "do you
think that Barry's trouble has any connection with--my brother? The
change of pictures in the dining-room--it was so strange. He said it
was a reparation. Do you think Barry--found out something in Japan?"

Peter shook his head. "God knows," he said gruffly. For a moment there
was silence, then with a sigh Miss Craven moved towards a bell.

"You'll stay for tea?"

"Thanks, no. I've got a man coming over, I'll have to go. Give my love
to Gillian and tell her I shall not, forgive her soon for deserting me
this morning. Has she lost that nasty cough yet?"

"Almost. I didn't want her to go to the Horringfords, but she promised
to be careful." Miss Craven paused, then:

"What did we do without Gillian, Peter?" she said with an odd little
laugh.

"'You've got me guessing,' as Atherton says. She's a witch, bless her!"
he replied, holding out his hands. Miss Craven took them and held them
for a moment.

"You're the best pal I ever had, Peter," she said unsteadily, "and
you've given all your life to us Cravens."

The sudden gripping of his hands was painful, then he bent his head and
unexpectedly put his lips to the fingers he held so closely.

"I'm always here--when you want me," he said huskily, and was gone.

Miss Craven stood still looking after him with a curious smile.

"Thank God for Peter," she said fervently, and went back to her station
by the window. It was considerably darker than before, but for some
distance the double avenue leading to the stables was visible. As she
watched, playing absently with the blind-cord, her mind dwelt on the
long connection between Peter Peters and her family. Thirty years--the
best of his life. And in exchange sorrow and an undying memory. The
woman he loved had chosen not him but handsome inconsequent Barry Craven
and, for her choice, had reaped misery and loneliness. And because he
had known that inevitably a day would come when she would need
assistance and support he had sunk his own feelings and retained his
post. Her brief happiness had been hard to watch--the subsequent long
years of her desertion a protracted torture. He had raged at his own
helplessness. And ignorant of his love and the motive that kept him at
Craven Towers she had come to lean on him and refer all to him. But for
his care the Craven properties would have been ruined, and the Craven
interests neglected beyond repair.

For some time before her sister-in-law's death Miss Craven had known, as
only a woman can know, but now for the first time she had heard from his
lips a half-confession of the love that he had guarded jealously for
thirty years.

The unusual tears that to-day seemed so curiously near the surface rose
despite her and she blinked the moisture from her eyes with a feeling of
irritated shame.

Then a figure, almost indistinguishable in the gloom, coming from the
stables, caught her eye and she gave a sharp sigh of relief.

He was walking slowly, his hands deep in his pockets, his shoulders
hunched against the storm of wind and rain that beat on his broad back.
His movements suggested intense weariness, yet nearing the house his
step lagged even more as if, despite physical fatigue and the inclement
weather, he was rather forcing himself to return than showing a natural
desire for shelter.

There was in his tread a heaviness that contrasted forcibly with the
elasticity that had formerly been characteristic. As he passed close
by the window where Miss Craven was standing she saw that he was
splashed from head to foot. She thought with sudden compassion of
the horse that he had ridden. She had been in the stables only a
few weeks before when he had handed over another jaded mud-caked brute
trembling in every limb and showing signs of merciless riding to the
old head groom who had maintained a stony silence as was his duty but
whose grim face was eloquent of all he might not say. It was so unlike
Barry to be inconsiderate, toward animals he had been always peculiarly
tender-hearted.

She hurried out to the hall, almost cannoning with a little dark-clad
figure who gave way with a deep Oriental reverence. "Master very wet,"
he murmured, and vanished.

"There's some sense in him," she muttered grudgingly. And quite suddenly
a wholly unexpected sympathy dawned for the inscrutable Japanese whom
she had hitherto disliked. But she had no time to dwell on her
unaccountable change of feeling for through the glass of the inner door
she saw Craven in the vestibule struggling stiffly to rid himself of a
dripping mackintosh. It had been no protection for the driving rain had
penetrated freely, and as he fumbled at the buttons with slow cold
fingers the water ran off him in little trickling streams on to the mat.

She had no wish to convey the impression that she had been waiting for
him. She met him as if by accident, hailing him with surprise that rang
genuine.

"Hallo, Barry, just in time for tea! I know you don't usually indulge,
but you can do an act of grace on this one occasion by cheering my
solitude. Peter looked in for ten minutes but had to hurry away for an
engagement, and Gillian is not yet back."

His face was haggard but he smiled in reply, "All right. In the library?
Then in five minutes--I'm a little wet."

In an incredibly short time he joined her, changed and immaculate. She
looked up from the tea urn she was manipulating, her eyes resting on him
with the pleasure his physical appearance always gave her. "You've been
quick!" "Yoshio," he replied laconically, handing her buttered toast.

He ate little himself but drank two cups of tea, smoking the while
innumerable cigarettes. Miss Craven chatted easily until the tea table
was taken away and Craven had withdrawn to his usual position on the
hearthrug, lounging against the mantelshelf.

Then she fell silent, looking at him furtively from time to time, her
hands restless in her lap, nerving herself to speak. What she had to say
was even more difficult to formulate than her confidence to Peters. But
it had to be spoken and she might never find a more favourable moment.
She took her courage in both hands.

"I want to speak to you of Gillian," she said hesitatingly.

He looked up sharply. "What of Gillian?" The question was abrupt, an
accent almost of suspicion in his voice and she moved uneasily.

"Bless the boy, don't jump down my throat," she parried, with a nervous
little laugh; "nothing of Gillian but what is sweet and good and dear ...
and yet that's not all the truth--it's more than that. I find it hard to
say. It's something serious, Barry, about Gillian's future," she paused,
hoping that he would volunteer some remark that would make her task
easier. But he volunteered nothing and, stealing a glance at him she saw
on his face an expression of peculiar stoniness to which she had lately
become accustomed. The new taciturnity, which she still found so
strange, seemed to have fallen on him suddenly. She stifled a sigh and
hurried on:

"I wonder if the matter of Gillian's future has ever occurred to you? It
has been in my mind often and lately I have had to give it more serious
attention. Time has run away so quickly. It is incredible that nearly
two years have passed since she became your ward. She will be twenty-one
in March--of age, and her own mistress. The question is--what is she to
do?"

"Do? There is no question of her _doing_ anything," he replied shortly.
"You mean that her coming of age will make no difference--that things
will go on as they are?" Miss Craven eyed him curiously.

"Yes. Why not?"

"You know less of Gillian than I thought you did." The old caustic tone
was sharp in her voice.

He looked surprised. "Isn't she happy here?"

"Happy!" Miss Craven laughed oddly. "It's a little word to mean so much.
Yes, she is happy--happy as the day is long--but that won't keep her.
She loves the Towers, she is adored on the estate, she has a corner in
that great heart of hers for all who live here--but still that won't
keep her. In her way of thinking she has a debt to pay, and all these
months, studying, working, hoping, she has been striving to that end.
She is determined to make her own way in the world, to repay what has
been expended on her----"

"That's dam' nonsense," he interrupted hotly.

"It's not nonsense from Gillian's point of view," Miss Craven answered
quickly, "it's just common honesty. We have argued the matter, she and
I, scores of times. I have told her repeatedly that in view of your
guardianship you stand _in loco parentis_ and, therefore, as long as she
is your ward her maintenance and artistic education are merely her just
due, that there can be no question of repayment. She does not see it in
that light. Personally--though I would not for the world have her know
it--I understand and sympathize with her entirely. Her independence, her
pride, are out of all proportion to her strength. I cannot condemn, I
can only admire--though I take good care to hide my admiration ... and
if you could persuade her to let the past rest, there is still the
question of her future."

"That I can provide for."

Miss Craven shook her head.

"That you can not provide for," she said gravely.

The flat contradiction stirred him. He jerked upright from his former
lounging attitude and stood erect, scowling down at her from his great
height. "Why not?" he demanded haughtily.

Miss Craven shrugged. "What would you propose to do?" He caught the
challenge in her tone and for a moment was disconcerted. "There would be
ways--" he said, rather vaguely. "Something could be arranged--"

"You would offer her--charity?" suggested Miss Craven, wilfully dense.

"Charity be damned."

"Charity generally is damnable to those who have to suffer it. No,
Barry, that won't do."

He jingled the keys in his pocket and the scowl on his face deepened.

"I could settle something on her, something that would be adequate, and
it could be represented that some old investment of her father's had
turned up trumps unexpectedly."

But Miss Craven shook her head again. "Clever, Barry, but not clever
enough. Gillian is no fool. She knows her father had no money, that he
existed on a pittance doled out to him by exasperated relatives which
ceased with his death. He told her plainly in his last letter that there
was nothing in the world for her--except your charity. Think of what
Gillian is, Barry, and think what she must have suffered--waiting for
your coming from Japan, and, to a less extent, in the dependence of
these last years."

He moved uncomfortably, as if he resented the plainness of his aunt's
words, and having found a cigarette lit it slowly. Then he walked to the
window, which was still unshuttered, and looked out into the darkness,
his back turned uncompromisingly to the room. His inattentive attitude
seemed almost to suggest that the matter was not of vital interest to
him.

Miss Craven's face grew graver and she waited long before she spoke
again. "There is also another reason why I have strenuously opposed
Gillian's desire to make her own way in the world, a reason of which she
is ignorant. She is not physically strong enough to attempt to earn her
own living, to endure the hard work, the privations it would entail. You
remember how bronchitis pulled her down last year; I am anxious about
her this winter. She is constitutionally delicate, she may grow out of
it--or she may not. Heaven knows what seeds of mischief she has
inherited from such parents as hers. She needs the greatest care,
everything in the way of comfort--she is not fitted for a rough and
tumble life. And, Barry, I can't tell her. It would break her heart."

Her eyes were fixed on him intently and she waited with eager
breathlessness for him to speak. But when at length he answered his
words brought a look of swift disappointment and she relaxed in her
chair with an air of weary despondency. He replied without moving.

"Can't you arrange something, Aunt Caro? You are very fond of Gillian,
you would miss her society terribly; cannot you persuade her that she is
necessary to you--that it would be possible for her to work and still
remain with you? I know that some day you will want to go back to your
own house in London, to take up your own interests again, and to travel.
I can't expect you to take pity much longer on a lonely bachelor. You
have given up much to help me--it cannot go on for ever. For what you
have done I can never thank you, it is beyond thanks, but I must not
trade on your generosity. If you put it to Gillian that you, personally,
do not want to part with her--that she is dear to you--it's true, isn't
it?" he added with sudden eagerness. And in surprise at her silence he
swung on his heel and faced her. She was leaning back in the big
armchair in a listless manner that was not usual to her.

"I am afraid you cannot count on me, Barry," she said slowly. He stared
in sheer amazement.

"What do you mean, Aunt Caro?--you do care for her, don't you?"

"Care for her?" echoed Miss Craven, with a laugh that was curiously like
a sob, "yes, I do care for her. I care so much that I am going to
venture a great deal--for her sake. But I cannot propose that she
should live permanently with me because all future permanencies have
been taken out of my hands. I hate talking about myself, but you had to
know some day, this only accelerates it. I have not been feeling myself
for some time--a little while ago I went to London for definite
information. The man had the grace to be honest with me--he bade me put
my house in order." Her tone left no possibility of misunderstanding. He
was across the room in a couple of hasty strides, on his knees beside
her, his hands clasped over hers.

"Aunt Caro!" The genuine and deep concern in his voice almost broke her
self-control. She turned her head, catching her lip between her teeth,
then with a little shrug she recovered herself and smiled at him.

"Dear boy, it must come some day--it has come a little sooner than I
expected, that is all. I'm not grumbling, I've had a wonderful life--I've
been able to do something with it. I have not sat altogether idle in the
market-place."

"But are you sure? Doctors are not infallible."

"Quite sure," she answered steadily; "the man I went to was very kind,
very thorough. He insisted I should have other opinions. There was a
council of big-wigs and they all arrived at the same conclusion, which
was at least consoling. A diversity of opinion would have torn my nerves
to tatters. I couldn't tell you before, it would have worried me. I hate
a fuss. I don't want it mentioned again. You know--and there's an end of
it." She squeezed his hands tightly for a moment, then got up abruptly
and went to the fireplace.

"I have only one regret--Gillian," she said as he followed her. "You see
now that it is impossible for me to make a definite home for her, even
supposing that she were to agree to such a proposal. They gave me two or
three years at the longest--it might be any time."

Craven stood beside her miserable and tongue-tied. Her news affected him
deeply, he was stunned with the suddenness of it and amazed at the
courage she displayed. She might almost have been discoursing on the
probable death of a stranger. And yet, he reflected, it was only in
keeping with her general character. She had been fearless all through
life, and for her death held no terrors.

He tried to speak but words failed him. And presently she spoke again,
hurriedly, disjointedly.

"I am helpless. I can do nothing for Gillian. I could have left her
money in my will, despite her pride she would have had to accept it. I
can't even do that. At my death all I have, as you know, goes back into
the estate. I have never saved anything--there never seemed any reason.
And what I made with my work I gave away. There is only you--only one
way--Barry, won't you--Barry!" She was crying undisguisedly, unconscious
even of the unaccustomed tears. "You know what I mean--you must know,"
she whispered entreatingly, struggling with emotion.

He was standing rigid, to her strained fancy he seemed almost to have
stopped breathing and there was in his attitude something that
frightened her. It came to her suddenly that, after all, he was to all
intents and purposes a stranger to her. Even the intimacy of these last
months, living in close contiguity to him in his own house had not
broken down the barrier that his sojourn in Japan had raised. She
understood him no better than on the day of his arrival in Paris. He had
been uniformly thoughtful and affectionate but had never reverted to the
old Barry whom she had known so well. He had, as it were, retired within
himself. He lived his life apart, with them but not of them, daily
carrying through the arduous work he set himself with a dogged
determination in which there was no pleasure. Yet, beyond a certain
gravity, to the casual observer there was in him no great change. He
entertained frequently and was a popular host, interesting and appearing
interested. Only Miss Craven and Peters, more intimate, saw the effort
that he made. To Miss Craven it seemed sometimes as if he were
deliberately living through a self-appointed period--she had found
herself wondering what cataclysm would end it. She was conscious of the
impression, which she tried vainly to dismiss as absurd, of living over
an active volcano. What would be the result of the upheaval when it
came? She had prayed earnestly for some counter-distraction that might
become powerful enough to surmount the tragic memory with which he
lived--a memory she was convinced and the tragedy was present in his
face. She had cherished a hope, born in the early days of their return
to Craven Towers and maintained in the face of seeming improbability of
fulfilment, that had grown to be an ardent desire. In the realization of
that hope she thought she saw his salvation. With the knowledge of her
own precarious hold on life she clung even more closely to what had
become the strongest wish she had ever known. She had never deluded
herself into imagining the consummation of her wish imminent, she had
frankly acknowledged to herself that his inscrutability was
impenetrable, and now hope seemed almost extinguished. She realized it
with a feeling of helplessness. And yet she had a curious impulse, an
inner conviction that urged with a peremptoriness that over-rode
subterfuge. She would speak plainly, be the consequences what they were.
It was for the ultimate happiness of the two beings whom she loved best
on earth--for that surely she might venture something. She had never
been afraid of plain speaking, it would be strange if she let convention
deter her now. Convention! it had wrecked many a life--so had
interference, she thought with sudden racking indecision. What if by
interference she hindered now, rather than helped? What if speech did
more mischief than silence? Irresolutely she wavered, and to her
indecision there came suddenly the further disturbing thought--if Barry
acceded to her earnest wish what ground had she for pre-supposing that
it would result in his happiness? She had no definite knowledge, no
positive assurance wherewith to press her request. The inmost feelings
of both were hidden from her. Her meddling might only bring more sorrow to
him who seemed already weighed down under a crushing burden of grief.
Gratitude and an intense admiration she knew existed. But between
admiration and any deeper feeling there was a wide gulf. And yet what
might not be hidden behind the grave seriousness of those great dark
eyes that looked with apparently equal frankness at every member of the
household? Months spent in the proximity of an unusually handsome man,
the romance of the tie between them--it was an experience that any
woman, least of all an unsophisticated convent-bred girl, could hardly
pass through unscathed. It was surely enough to gamble on, she reflected
with grim humour that did not amuse. It was a great hazzard, the highest
stakes she had ever played for who had never been afraid of losing. The
thought spurred her. If it was to be the last throw then let there be no
hesitation. A reputation for courage and coolness had gone with her
through life.

She turned to him abruptly, all indecision gone, complete mistress of
herself again.

"Barry, don't you understand?" she said with slow distinctness. "I want
you to ask Gillian to marry you."

He started as if she had stabbed him.

"Good God," he cried violently, "you don't know what you are saying!"
And from his tortured face she averted her eyes hastily, sick at heart.
But she held her ground, aware that retreat was not now possible.

She answered gently, steadying her voice with difficulty.

"Is it so extraordinary that I should wish it, should hope for it? I
care for you both so deeply. To know that your mother's place would be
filled by one who is worthy to follow her--how worthy only I, who have
been admitted to her high ideals, appreciate; to know that there would
be the happiness of home ties here for you, to know that I leave Gillian
safe in your hands--it would make my going very easy, Barry."

His head was down on his arms on the mantelshelf, his face hidden from
her. "Gillian--safe--in my hands--_my God_!" he groaned, and shuddered
like a man in mortal agony.

All the deep love she had for him, all the fears she entertained for him
leaped up in her with sudden strength, forcing utterance and breaking
down the reticence she had imposed upon herself. She caught his arm.

"Barry, what is it--for heaven's sake speak! Do you think I have
been blind all these months, that I have seen nothing? Can't you tell
me--anything?" her voice, quivering with emotion, was strange to him,
strange enough to recall him to himself. He straightened slowly and drew
away from her with a little shiver. "There is nothing I can tell you,"
he replied dully, "nothing that I can explain, only this--I went through
hell in Japan. I don't want any sympathy--it was my own fault, my own
doing.... Just now I made a fool of myself, I was off my guard, your
words startled me. Forget it, you can do me no good by remembering."

He made an abrupt movement as if to leave the room but Miss Craven stood
squarely in front of him, her chin raised stubbornly. She knew now that
she was face to face with something even more terrible than she had
imagined. He had avoided a definite answer. By all reasoning she should
have accepted his rebuff but intuition, stronger than reason, impelled
her. If he went now it would be the end. She knew that positively. The
question could never be opened up again. She could not let it pass
without a final effort. It was inconceivable that this shadow could
always lie across his life. Whatever tragical event had occurred
belonged to the past--surely the future might hold some alleviation,
some happiness that might compensate for the sorrow that had lined his
face and brought the silver threads that gleamed in his thick dark hair.
Surely in the care for another life memory might be dulled and there
might dawn for him a new hope, a new peace. Despite his broken
suggestive words her trust in him was still maintained; she had no fear
for Gillian--with him her future would be assured. And there seemed no
other alternative. Her confidence in herself furthermore was not shaken,
she had a deep unalterable conviction that the wish for the union she so
desired was based upon something deeper than mere fancy. It was not
anything that she could put into words or even into concrete thought,
but the belief was strong. It was a vivid assurance that went beyond
reasoning, that made it possible for her to speak again.

"Are you going to let the past dominate the rest of your life," she
asked slowly, "is the future to count for nothing? There are, in all
probability, many years ahead of you--cannot you, in them, obliterate
what has gone before?"

He turned from her with a hopeless gesture and a muttered word she could
not catch. But he did not go as she feared he would. He lingered in the
room, staring into the heart of the glowing fire and Miss Craven played
her last card.

"And--Gillian?" she said firmly, all the Craven obstinacy in her voice,
and waited long for his answer. When it came it was flat, monotonous.

"I cannot marry her. I cannot marry--anybody."

"Are you married already?" The question escaped before she could bite it
back. With a quickening heartbeat she awaited an outburst, a retort that
would end everything. But he answered quietly, in the same toneless
voice: "No, I am not married."

She caught at the loop-hole it seemed to offer. "If there is no bar----"
she began eagerly, but he cut her short. "I have done with all that sort
of thing," he said harshly.

"Why?" she persisted, with a doggedness that matched his own. "If you
have known sorrow, does that necessarily mean that you can never again
know happiness? Must you for a--a memory, turn your back irrevocably on
any chance that may restore your peace of mind? I believe that such a
chance is waiting for you."

He looked at her with strange intentness. "For me...." he smiled
bitterly. "If you only knew!"

"I only know that you are hesitating at what most men would jump at,"
she retorted, suddenly conscious of strained nerves and feeling as
if she were battering impotently against a granite rock-face. His
hands clenched but he did not reply and swift contrition fell on her.
She turned to him impulsively. "Forgive me, Barry. I shouldn't have
said that, but I want this thing so desperately. I am convinced that
it would mean happiness for you, for you both. And when I think of
Gillian--alone--fighting against the world----" She broke down
completely and he gripped her hands with a strength that made her
wince.

"She'll never do that if I can help it," he said swiftly.

Miss Craven looked up with sudden hope. "You will ask her?" she
whispered expectantly. He put her from him gently. "I can promise
nothing. I must think," he said deliberately, and there was in his face
a look that held her silent.

With uncertain feelings she watched him leave the room.... Inevitable
re-action set in, doubts overwhelmed her. Had she done what was best or
had she blundered irretrievably? She went unsteadily to a chair,
extraordinarily tired, exhausted in her new weakness by the emotional
strain through which she had passed. She was beginning to be a little
aghast at what she had done, at the force that she had set moving. And
yet she had been actuated by the highest motives. She believed
implicitly that the joining of the two lives whose future was all her
care would result in the ultimate happiness of both. They had grown used
to each other. A closer relationship than that of guardian and ward
seemed, in view of the comparatively slight difference in age, a natural
outcome of the intimacy into which they had been thrown. It was not
without precedent; similar events had happened before and would
doubtless happen again, she argued, striving to stifle the still
lingering doubt that whispered that she had gone beyond her prerogative.
And what she had done was in a way inexplicable even to herself. All
through she had felt that involuntary forceful impulse that had been
almost fatalistic, she had urged through the prompting of an inward
conviction. She had perhaps attached too much importance to it, her own
wish had been magnified until it assumed the appearance of fate.

Her closed eyes quivered as she leaned back in the chair.

She had done it for the best, she kept repeating mechanically to
herself, to try and bring happiness into his life; to insure the safety
of the girl who had become so dear to her. Had it been his thought too,
even before she spoke? His manner had been so strange. He had recoiled
from her suggestion but she had been left with the impression that it
was no new one to him. She had caught a fleeting look, before his face
had taken on that impenetrable mask, that had given the lie to his
emphatic words. He had seemed to be wrestling with himself, she had seen
the moisture thick on his forehead, his set face had looked as if it
could never soften again. When he had gone he had given her no definite
promise and she had no possibility of guessing what his decision would
be. But on reflection she found hope in his deferring reply. It was all
that was left to her. She had done her utmost, the rest lay with him.
She sighed deeply, she had never felt such weariness of mind and body.
As she gave way to a feeling of growing lassitude drowsiness came over
her which she was too tired to combat and for some time she slept
heavily. She awoke with a start to find Gillian, wide-eyed with
concern, kneeling beside her, the girl's slim warm fingers clasped
closely round her sleep-numbed hands. Dazed with sudden waking she
looked up without speaking at the fresh young face that bent over her.
Gillian rubbed the cold hands gently. "Aunt Caro, you were asleep! I've
never caught you napping before," she laughed, but a hint of anxiety
mingled with the wonder in her voice. Miss Craven slowly smiled
reassurance. Her weakness seemed to have vanished with sleep, she felt
herself once more strong enough to hide from the searching affectionate
eyes anything that might give pain or cause uneasiness. She sat up
straighter.

"Laziness, my dear, sheer laziness," she said sturdily. Gillian looked
at her gravely. "Sure?" she asked, "you are sure that you are quite
well? You looked so tired--your face was quite white."

"Quite sure--unbeliever! And you--did you have a good time; did you
remember to take your tonic, and did you keep warm?"

Gillian laughed softly and stood up, ticking off the items on her
fingers. "I did have a good time, I did remember to take my tonic, and
this heavenly coat has kept me as warm as pie--Nina Atherton taught me
that. That nice family considerably enlarged my vocabulary," she added
with enjoyment, slipping out of a heavy fur coat and coming back to
perch on the arm of Miss Craven's chair.

"Not yours only," was the answer, "Peter was quoting the husband this
afternoon."

They were both silent for a moment thinking of the three charming
Americans who had spent a couple of months at the Towers the previous
summer, bringing with them an adored scrap of humanity and a host of
nurses, valets and maids.

Then Gillian drew her arm closer around Miss Craven.

"Alex pressed me to stay until to-morrow, I had the greatest trouble to
get away. But I promised to come back this afternoon, and, do you know,
Aunt Caro, I had the queerest feeling this morning. I thought you
_wanted_ me, wanted me urgently. As if you could ever want anybody
urgently, you self-reliant wonder." She gave the shoulder she was
caressing an affectionate hug. "But it was odd, wasn't it? I nearly
telephoned, and then I concluded you would think I had taken leave of my
senses."

Miss Craven sat very still.

"I should have," she replied, and hoped that her voice appeared more
natural than it sounded to herself. Gillian laughed.

"Anyhow, I'm glad you had Mr. Peters to cheer your solitary tea. I hated
to think of you being alone."

"He didn't. He left early. But Barry condescended to take pity on me."

"Mr. Craven!" There was the slightest pause before she added: "I thought
he scorned _le five o'clock_. He's not nearly so domesticated as David."

"As who, my dear?" asked Miss Craven, staring. Gillian gave another
little laugh.

"Oh, that's my private name for Mr. Peters--he doesn't mind--he spoils
me dreadfully--'the sweet singer in Israel'--you know. He has got the
most beautiful tenor voice I have ever listened to."

"Peter--sing! I've never heard him sing," said Miss Craven in wonder,
and she looked up with a new curiosity. "I've known him for thirty
years, and in less than that number of months you discover an
accomplishment of which everybody else is ignorant. How did you manage
it, child?"

"By accident, one evening in the summer. You were dining out, and
Mouston and I had gone for a ramble in the park--it's gorgeous there in
the _crepuscule_--and we were quite close to the Hermitage. I heard him
and I eaves-dropped--is there such a word? It was so lovely that I had
to clap and he came out and found an unexpected audience on the
windowsill. Wasn't it dreadful? He was so dear about it and explained
that it was a very private form of amusement, but since the cat was out
of the bag there was an end of the matter, only he positively declined
to perform in public. I bullied him into singing some more, and then he
walked home with me."

"You twist Peter round your little finger and trade on his good nature
shamelessly," said Miss Craven severely, but her teasing held no
terrors.

"He's such a dear," the girl repeated softly, and slipping off the arm
of the chair she went to the fire and knelt down to put back a log that
had fallen on to the hearth and was smouldering uselessly. Miss Craven
looked at her as, the log replaced, she still knelt on the rug and held
her hands mechanically to the blaze. She had an intense and wholly
futile longing to speak what was in her mind and, demanding confidence
for confidence, penetrate the secret of the heart that had confided to
her all but this one thing. Little by little through no pressure but by
mere telepathic sympathy, reserve had melted away and hopes and
aspirations had been submitted and discussed. But of this one thing
there could be no discussion. Miss Craven realised it and stifled a
regretful sigh. Even she, dear as she knew herself to be, might not
intrude so intimately. For by such an intrusion she might lose all that
she had gained. She could not forfeit the confidence that had grown to
mean so much to her, it was too high a price to pay even for the
knowledge she sought. She must have patience, she thought, as she ran
her fingers with the old gesture through her grey curls. But it was hard
to be patient when any moment might bring the summons that would put her
beyond the ken of earthly events. To go, leaving this problem still
unsolved! She set her teeth and sat rigid, gripping the oak rails of the
chair until her fingers ached, battling with herself. She looked again
at the slim kneeling figure, the pale oval face half turned to her, the
thick dark hair piled high on the small proud head glistening in the
firelight. A thing of grace and beauty--in mind and body desirable. How
could he hesitate....

"Barry was riding--all day--in this atrocious weather. He came in
soaked," she said abruptly, almost querulously, unlike her usual
tolerant intonation. There was no immediate answer and for a moment she
thought she had not been heard. The girl had moved slightly, turning her
face away, and with a steady hand was building the dying fire into a
pyramid. She completed the operation carefully and sat back on her heels
flourishing the tiny brass tongs.

"He's tough," she said lightly, unconsciously echoing Peters' words and
apparently heedless of the interval between Miss Craven's remark and her
own reply. She seemed more interested in the fire than in her guardian.
Laying the tongs away leisurely she came back to Miss Craven's chair and
settled down on the floor beside her, her arms crossed on the elder
woman's knee. She looked up frankly, a faint smile lightening her
serious brown eyes.

"I don't think Mr. Craven wants any sympathy, _cherie_," she said
slowly, "I reserve all mine for Yoshio, he fusses so dreadfully when the
'honourable master' goes for those tremendous long rides or is out
hunting. Have you noticed that he always waits in the hall, to be ready
at the first moment to rush away and get dry clothes and a hot bath and
all the other Oriental paraphernalia for checking chills and driving the
ache out of sore bones? I don't suppose Mr. Craven has ever had sore
bones--he is so splendidly strong--and Yoshio certainly seems determined
he never shall. Mary thoroughly approves of him, she's a fusser by
nature too; she deplores his heathenism but says he has more sense than
many a Christian. Soon after we came here I found him in the hall one
day staring through the window, looking the picture of misery, his funny
little yellow face all puckered up. He saw me out of the back of his
head, truly he did, for he never turned, and tried to slip away. But I
made him stay and talk to me. I sat on the stairs and he folded himself
up on the mat--I can't describe it any other way--and told me all about
Japan, and California and Algeria and all the other queer places he has
been to with Mr. Craven. He has such a quaint dramatic way of speaking
and lapses into unintelligible Japanese just at the exciting moments--so
tantalising! They seem to have been in some very--what do you say?--tight
corners. We got quite sociable. I was so interested in listening to his
description of the wonderful gardens they make in Japan that I never
heard Mr. Craven come in and did not realise that he was standing near
us until Yoshio suddenly shot up and fled, literally vanished, and left
me _planteel_! I felt so idiotic sitting on the stairs hugging my knees
and Mr. Craven, all splashed and muddy, waiting for me to let him pass--I
was dreadfully frightened of him in those days," the faintest colour
tinged her cheeks. "I longed for an earthquake to swallow me up," she
laughed and scrambled to her feet, gathering the heap of furs into her
arms and holding them dark and silky against her face. "You shouldn't
have encouraged in me a love of beautiful furs, Aunt Caro," she said
inconsequently, with sudden seriousness. "I've sense enough left to
know that I shouldn't indulge it--and I'm human enough to adore them."

"Rubbish! furs suit you--please my sense of the artistic. I would not
encourage you if you had a face like a harvest moon and no carriage--I
can't bear sloppiness in anything," snapped Miss Craven in quite her old
style. "When do the Horringfords start for Egypt?" she added by way of
definitely changing the subject.

Gillian rubbed her cheek against the soft sealskin with an understanding
smile. It was hopeless to try and curb Miss Craven's generosity,
hopeless to attempt to argue against it. "Next week," she answered the
inquiry. "Tuesday, probably. They stay in Paris for a month _en route;_
Lord Horringford wants some data from the Louvre and also to arrange
some preliminaries with the French Egyptologist who is joining their
party."

"Hum! And Alex--still interested in mummies?"

"More than ever, she is full of enthusiasm. She talks of dynasties and
tribal deities, of kings and _Kas_ and symbols until my head spins. Lord
Horringford teases her but it is easy to see that her interest pleases
him. He says she is the mascot of the expedition, that she brought luck
to the digging last year."

"Alex has had many hobbies but never one that ran for two seasons," said
Miss Craven thoughtfully; "I am glad she has found an interest at last
that promises to be permanent."

Gillian gathered the furs closer in her arms and made a few steps toward
the door. "She has found more than that," she said softly, and the
colour flamed in her sensitive face. Miss Craven nodded. "You mean that
in unearthing the buried treasure of a dead past she has found the
living treasure of a man's love? Yes, and not any too soon, poor silly
child. Men like Horringford don't bear playing with. I wonder whether
she knows how near she has been to making shipwreck of her life."

"I think she knows--now," said Gillian, with a little wise smile as she
left the room.

The sound of her soft contralto singing an old French nursery rhyme
echoed faintly back to the library:

  "Mon pre m'a donn un petit mari,
   Mon Dieu, quel homme!"

And, listening, Miss Craven smiled half-sadly, for the quaint words
carried her back to the days of her own childhood. But the exigencies of
the present thrust aside past memories. She sat on, wrapped in her
thoughts until the dropping temperature of the room sent through her a
sudden chill, so she rose with a shiver and a startled glance at her
watch.

"Dry bones and love," she said musingly, "it's a curious combination!
Peter, my man, you gave wise advice there.... But not all your wisdom
can help _my_ trouble."




CHAPTER VI


December had brought a complete change of weather. It was within a few
days of Christmas, a typical old-fashioned Yuletide with a firm white
mantle of snow lying thick over the country.

Underneath the ground was iron and for two weeks all hunting had been
stopped.

Craven was returning to the Towers after an absence of ten days. The
motor crawled through the park for in places the frozen road was
slippery as glass and the chauffeur was a cautious North-countryman
whose faith in the chains locked round the wheels was not unlimited; he
was driving carefully, with a wary eye for the worst patches noted on
the outward run, and, beside him, equally alert, sat Yoshio muffled to
the ears in an immense overcoat, a shapeless bundle.

It was early afternoon, calm and clear, and in the air the intense
stillness that succeeds a heavy snowfall. The pale sun, that earlier in
the day had iridised the snow, was now too low to affect the dead
whiteness of the scene against which the trees showed magnified and
sharply black. Here and there across the smooth surface stretching on
either side of the road lay the curiously differing tracks of animals.
From the back seat of the car where he sat alone Craven marked them
mechanically. He knew every separate spoor and could have named the
owner of each; ordinarily they would have claimed from him a certain
interest but today he passed them without a second thought. He did not
resent the slow progress of the car, he was in no hurry to reach the
Towers. He had come to a momentous decision but shrank from the action
that must necessarily follow; once at the house he knew that he would
permit himself no further delay, he would put his purpose into effect
at the earliest opportunity--today if possible; here there was still
time--vaguely he wondered for what? Not for reflection, that was done
with. He had striven with all his strength to arrive at a right
determination; he had thought until reasoning became a mere repetition
of fixed ideas moving in a circle and arriving always at an unvaried
starting point. There seemed no consequence that he had not weighed in
his mind, no issue that he had not considered. To ponder afresh would
be to cover again uselessly ground that he had gone over a hundred
times. Three days ago he had made his choice, he had no intention of
departing from it. For good or ill the thing must go forward now. And,
after all, the ultimate decision did not lie with him. Admitting it his
thoughts became introspective. Throughout his deliberations he had put
self on one side, there had been no question of his own wishes; now for
the first time he allowed personal considerations to rise unchecked. For
what did he hope? He knew the reason of his reluctance to reach the
house--he desired success and yet he feared it, feared the consequences
that might result, feared the strength of his own will to persevere in
the course he had chosen. For him there was no other way but, merciful
God, it would be hard! He set his teeth and stared at the frozen
landscape with unseeing eyes. Since her outburst four weeks ago Miss
Craven had not spoken again of the wish that was nearest her heart, but
he knew that she was waiting for an answer, knew that that answer must
be given. One way or the other. Day had succeeded day in torturing
indecision. He had lived, slept with the problem, at no time was it
out of his mind. In the course of the long rides that had become more
frequent, obtruding during the monotonous hours spent in the estate
office, the problem persisted. In the sleepless hours of the night he
wrestled with it. If it had been a matter of personal inclination, if
the past had not risen between them there would have been no hesitation.
He would have gone to her months ago, would have begged the priceless
gift that she alone could give. He wanted her, almost above the hope of
salvation, and the inducement to ignore the past had been all but
overpowering. He loved and desired with all the strength of the
passionate nature he had inherited. He craved for her with an intensity
that was anguish, that set him wondering how far the power of endurance
reached, how much a man could bear. He was torn with the fierce
promptings of primeval forces. To take her, willing or unwilling,
despite honour, despite all that stood between them, to make her his
and hold her in the face of all the world--at times the temptation had
been maddening. There had been days when he had not dared to look on
her, when he had drawn himself more than ever apart from the common
life, fearful of himself, fearful of circumstances that seemed beyond
his ordering. And the thought that another could take what he might not
had engendered an insensate jealousy that was beyond reason. He did not
recognise himself, he had not known the depths of his own nature. If
there had been no bar, if she could have come to him willingly, if there
could indeed have been for him the full ties of home--the thought was
agony. Miss Craven's words had been a sword turning in an open wound.
To the burden he already carried had been added this.

The future of his ward had been his problem as well as Miss Craven's.
Only a little while ago a way had seemed clear, not a way to his own
happiness--by his own act he had put himself beyond all possibility of
that--but a way that would mean security and happiness for her who had
come to mean more than life to him. For her safety he would have given
his soul. The term of his guardianship was drawing to an end, in a few
months his legal control over her terminated. Miss Craven who had
surrendered her independence for two years would be returning to her own
home, to her old life; it had seemed a foregone conclusion that Gillian
would accompany her.

But the double shock in the revelation of Miss Craven's precarious state
and Gillian's delicacy had been staggering. He had not been prepared for
a contingency that seemed to cut the ground from under his feet. With
all the will in the world his aunt was powerless to further the plan he
proposed, any day might bring the Great Summons. And Gillian! The little
persistent cough rang in his ears always. Gillian and poverty--by day it
haunted him, he woke in the night sweating at the very thought. It was
intolerable. And yet there appeared no means of escaping it--save one.
For a moment, with a fierce joy, he saw fate aiding him, forcing into
his hands what he yearned to gather to himself, then he recoiled from
even the thought of her purity linked with the stain of his past. He had
racked his brain to discover an alternative. To force upon her an
adequate income that would put her beyond want and the necessity of work
would be easy. To induce her to use the money thus provided he divined
would be impossible, he seemed to know intuitively that her will would
not give way to his. During these last weeks he had looked at her with
new understanding, it seemed incredible that he had never before
recognised the determination that underlay her shy gentleness. Character
shone in the frank brown eyes, there was a firmness that was
unmistakable in the arched lips that were the only patch of colour in
her delicate face. From his wealth she would accept nothing. Would she
accept him--all that he dared offer? It was no new idea, the thought had
been in his mind often but always he resolutely put it from him with a
feeling of abhorrence. It was an insult to her womanhood, an expedient
that nothing could justify. And yet step by step he was forced back upon
it--there seemed no other way to save her from herself. Days of
harrassing indecision, his only thought she, brought him no nearer to a
conclusion. And time was passing. He had reached a point when further
deliberation was beyond his power; when all his strength seemed to turn
into hopeless longing that, to the exclusion of all else, craved even
the mockery of possession; when days were torment and nights a sleepless
horror. Then change of scene had aided final determination. The factor
of the Scotch estate had written of a sudden and unexpected difficulty
for which he asked personal advice. A telegram had stopped his proposed
visit to the Towers and Craven had himself gone instead to Scotland. And
in the solitude of his northern home he had decided on the only course
that seemed open to him. He would go to her with his poor offer, the
poorest surely that ever a man made to a woman, and the rest would lie
with her. But how would she receive it? He had a vision of the soft
brown eyes blazing with scorn, of the slender figure he ached to hold in
his arms turning from him in cold disgust, and he clenched his hands
until the nails bit deep into his wet palms.

A bad skid that slewed the car half round broke his thoughts and in a
few minutes they were at the house.

Forbes, the elderly butler who had been an under footman when
Peters first came to the Towers, was waiting for him in the hall,
informative with the garrulousness of an old and privileged servant.
A late luncheon was waiting--he sighed patiently on hearing that it
was not required--Miss Craven had gone to the Vicarage for tea; Mr.
Peters was expected to dinner that night and he had telephoned in
the morning to tell Mr. Craven--Craven cut him short. Peter's message
could wait, only one thing seemed to matter just now.

"Where is Miss Locke?" he asked curtly. "In the studio, sir," replied
Forbes with resignation. If Mr. Barry didn't want to hear what Mr.
Peters had got to say he, for one, was not going to press the matter.
Mr. Barry had had his own way of doing things since the days when he sat
on the pantry table kicking his heels and flourishing stolen jam under
Forbes' very nose--a masterful one always, he was. And if it was a case
of Miss Gillian--Forbes retired with an armful of ulster and rugs into
the cloakroom to hide a sympathetic grin.

Craven crossed the hall and went into the study. He looked without
interest through an accumulation of letters lying on the writing table,
then threw them down indifferently. Walking to the fireplace he lit a
cigarette and stood staring at the cheerful blaze. At last he raised his
head and gazed with deliberation at himself in the glass over the
mantle. He scowled at the stern worn face reflected in the mirror,
looking curiously at its deep cut lines, at the silver patches in the
thick brown hair. Then with a violent exclamation he swung abruptly on
his heel, flung the cigarette into the fire and left the room. He went
upstairs slowly, surprised at the feeling of apathy that had come over
him. In the face of direct action the high tension of the last few weeks
had snapped, leaving him dull, almost inert, and reluctance to go
forward grew with every step. But at the head of the stairs his mood
changed suddenly. All that the coming interview meant to him revealed
itself with startling clearness. With a deep breath he caught at the
rail, for he was shaking uncontrollably, and covered his face with his
hand.

"God!" he whispered, and again: "God!"

Then he gripped himself and went quickly across the gallery, turning
down the corridor that led to the west wing. He followed the oddly
twisting passage, contorted at the whim of succeeding generations where
rooms had been enlarged or abolished, passing rows of closed doors and
another staircase. The corridor terminated in the room he was seeking.
It had been the old playroom; at the extreme end of the wing it faced
northward and westward and was well suited for the studio into which it
had been converted. It was Gillian's own domain and he had never asked
to visit it. As he reached the door he heard from within the shrill
treble of a boy's mirth and then a low soft laugh that made his heart
beat quicker. He tapped and went in and for a moment stared in
amazement. He did not recognise the room, it was a totally unexpected
French _atelier_ tucked away in the corner of a typically English house.

The polished rug-laid floor, the fluted folds of _toile-de-genes_
clothing the walls, the litter of sketches and pictures, casts and
easels, the familiar lay-figure grotesquely attitudinising in a corner,
above all the atmosphere carried him straight to Paris. It was the room
of an artist, and a French artist. His eyes leaped to her. She was
standing before a big easel looking wonderingly over her shoulder at the
opening door, the brush she was using poised in her hand, her eyes wide
with astonishment, a faint flush creeping into her cheeks.

In the picturesque painter's blouse, her brown hair loosely framing her
face, she seemed altogether different. He could not define wherein lay
the change, he had no time to discriminate, he only knew that seen thus
she was a thousand times more desirable than she had ever been and that
his heart cried out for her more fiercely than before. He looked at her
with hungry longing, then quickly--lest his eyes should betray him--from
her to her model. A boy of ten with an intelligent small brown face, a
mop of black curls, and red lips parted in a mischievous smile, he stood
on the raised platform with the easy assurance of a professional.

Craven shut the door behind him and came forward. She turned to meet him
and the colour rushed in a crimson wave to the roots of her hair.
"_Monsieur ... vous etes de retour ... mais, soyez le bienvenu_!" she
stammered, with surprise unconsciously lapsing into the language of
childhood. Then she caught herself up with a little laugh of confusion
and hurried on in English: "I am so sorry ... there is nobody in but me.
Will you have some tea? It is only three o'clock," with a glance at her
wrist, "but I expect you lunched early."

"I don't want any tea," he said bluntly. "I came to see you." He spoke
in French, mindful of two sharp ears on the platform. The colour in her
face deepened painfully and her eyes fell under his steady gaze. She
moved slowly back to the easel.

"If you could wait a few moments----" she murmured.

"I don't want to interrupt," he said hastily. "Please finish your work.
You don't mind if I stay? I haven't been here since I was a boy; you
have changed the room incredibly. May I look round?"

She nodded assent over a tube of colour, and returned to her study.

Left to himself he wandered leisurely round the room, examining the
pictures and sketches that were heaped indiscriminately. He had never
before displayed any interest in her work, and was now amazed at what he
saw. There was power in it that surprised him, that made him wonder what
intuition had given the convent-bred girl the knowledge she exhibited.
The tardy recognition of her talent strengthened his stranger feeling
toward her. He went thoughtfully to the fireplace, and, from the rug,
surveyed the room and its occupants. The atmosphere recalled old
memories--he had studied in Paris after leaving Oxford--only one thing
seemed lacking.

"May I smoke?" he asked abruptly.

Gillian turned with a quick smile.

"But, of course. What need to ask? After Aunt Caro has been here for an
hour the room is blue."

For another ten minutes he watched her in silence, free to look as he
would, for her back was toward him and in his position before the fire
he was beyond the range of the little model's inquisitive black eyes.

Then she laid palette and brushes on a near table and stepped back,
frowning at what she had done until a smile came slowly to chase the
creases from her forehead. She spoke without moving, still looking at
the canvas: "That is all for to-day, Danny. The light has gone."

The small boy stretched himself luxuriously, and descending from the
platform, joined her and gazed with evident interest at his portrait. He
peered in unconscious but faithful imitation of her own critical
attitude, his head slanted at the same angle as hers. "It's coming on,"
he announced solemnly, and Craven guessed from the girl's laugh that it
was a repetition of some remark heard and stored up for future use. The
boy grinned in response, and slipping behind her went to the table where
she had laid her tools. "Can I clean palut?" he asked hopefully, his
hand already half-way to the coveted mass of colour.

"Not to-day, thanks, Danny."

"Shall I fetch th' dog, Miss?" more hopefully. Gillian turned to him
quickly.

"He bit you last time."

Danny wriggled his feet and his small white teeth flashed in a wide
smile. "He won't bite I again," he said confidently. "Mammy said 'twas
'cos he loved you and hated to have folks near you. She said I was to
whisper in his ear I loved you too, 'cos then he wouldn't touch me. Dad
he says 'tis a damned black devil," he added with candid relish and a
sidelong glance of mischief at his employer.

Gillian laughed and gave his shoulder a little pat.

"I'm afraid he is," she admitted ruefully. The boy threw his head back.
"I ain't afeard o' he," he said stoutly. "_Shall_ I fetch 'im?"

"I think we'll leave him where he is, Danny," she said gravely, as if in
confidence. "He's probably very happy. Now run away and come again on
Saturday." She waved a paint-stained rag at him and turned again to the
picture. Obediently he started towards the door, then hesitated,
glancing irresolutely at Craven, and tip-toed back to the easel.

"Them things in the drawer," he muttered sepulchrally, in a voice not
intended to reach the ears of the rather awe-inspiring personage on the
hearthrug. Gillian whipped round contritely. "Danny, I forgot them!" she
apologised, and tweaking a black curl went to a bureau and produced a
square cardboard box. Danny tucked it under his arm with murmured thanks
and a duck of the head, and crossing the room noiselessly went out,
closing the door behind him softly. Craven came slowly to her. She moved
to give him place before the easel. Craven looked at the small alert
brown face, the odd black eyes dancing with almost unearthly merriment,
the red lips curving upward to an enigmatical smile, and his wonder and
admiration grew.

"Who is he?" he asked curiously, puzzled by a likeness he seemed to
recognise dimly and yet was unable to place.

"Danny Major--the son of one of your gamekeepers," said Gillian; "his
mother has gipsy blood in her."

Craven whistled. "I remember," he said, interested. "Old Major was
head-keeper. Young Major lost his heart to a gipsy lass and his father
kicked him out of doors. Peters, as usual, smoothed things over and kept
the fellow on at his job, in spite of a great deal of opposition--he had
seen the girl and formed his own opinion. I asked once or twice and he
said that it had turned out satisfactorily. So this is the son--he's a
rum-looking little beggar."

Gillian was cleaning brushes at the side table. "He's the terror of the
neighbourhood," she said smiling, "but for some reason he is a perfect
angel when he comes here. It isn't the chocolates," she added hastily as
she saw a fleeting smile on his face, "he just likes coming. And he
tells me the most wonderful things about the woods and the wood
beasties."

"He would," said Craven significantly, "it's in the blood. What's this?"
he asked, pointing to a smaller board propped face inward against the
big canvas. For a moment she did not answer and the colour flamed into
her face again. She put the brushes away, and wiping her fingers on a
cloth, lifted the board and gave it into his hands.

"It's Danny as I see him," she said in an odd voice. And, looking at it,
Craven realised that the cleverness of the painted head on the large
canvas paled to mediocrity beside the brilliance of the sepia sketch he
held. It was the same head--but marvellously different--set on the body
of a faun. The dancing limbs were pulsing with life, the tiny hoofs
stamping the flower-strewn earth in an ecstasy of movement; the head was
thrown forward, bent as though to catch a distant echo, and among the
tossing curls showed two small curving horns; to the enigmatical smile
of the original had been added a subtle touch of mockery, and the wide
eyes held a look of mystical knowledge that was uncanny. Craven held it
silently, it seemed an incredible piece of work for the girl to have
conceived. And, beside him, she waited nervously for his verdict, with
close-locked twitching fingers. He had never come before, had never
shown any interest in the work that meant so much to her. She was hungry
for his praise, fearful of his censure. If he saw nothing in it now but
the immature efforts of an amateur! Her heart tightened. She drew a
little nearer to him, her eyes fixed apprehensively on his intent face,
her breath coming quickly. At length he replaced the sketch carefully.
"You have a wonderful talent," he said slowly. A little gasp of relief
escaped her and her lips trembled in spite of all efforts to keep them
steady. "You like it?" she whispered eagerly, and was terrified at
the awful pallor that overspread his face. For a moment he could not
speak. The words, the intonation! He was back again in Japan, looking
at the painting of a lonely fir tree clinging to a jutting sea-washed
cliff--the faintest scent of oriental perfume seemed stealing through
the air. He drew his hand across his eyes. "Merciful God ... not
here ... not now!" he prayed in silent agony. Then with a desperate
effort he mastered himself and turned to the frightened girl with a
forced smile. "Forgive me--I've a beastly headache--the room went
spinning round for a minute," he said jerkily, wiping the moisture
from his forehead. She looked at him gravely. "I think you are very
tired, and I don't believe you had any lunch," she said with quiet
decision. "I'm going to make some coffee. Aunt Caro says my coffee
drinking is more vicious than her smoking," she went on, purposely
giving him time to recover himself, and crossing the room she collected
little cups and a small brass pot. "Any how it's the real article, and
in spite of what she says Aunt Caro doesn't scorn it. She comes regularly
to drink my _cafe noir_ with her after-lunch cigarette."

Craven dropped down heavily on the broad cushioned window seat, his
hands clasped over his throbbing temples, fighting to regain his shaken
nerve. And yet there was a great hope dawning. For the first time the
threatening vision had failed to materialise, and the fact gave him
courage. If a time should come when it would definitely cease to haunt
him! He could never forget, never cease to regret, but he would feel
that in the Land of Understanding the hapless victim of his crime had
forgiven the sin that had robbed her of her young life.

And as he grew calmer he began to be conscious that in the room where he
sat there was a restfulness that he had not felt in any other part of
the house since his return to Craven Towers. It was acting on him
curiously and he wondered what it portended. And as he pondered it
Gillian came to him with a cup of coffee in either hand.

_"Monsieur est servi,"_ she said with a little laugh. She seemed to have
suddenly overcome shyness as if, in her own domain, the first surprise
of his visit over, her surroundings gave her confidence. Or, perhaps,
the womanliness that had been called out to meet his passing weakness
had set her on another plane. All signs of giddiness had left him and,
with her usual intuition, she did not trouble him with questions. For
the first time she found it easy to speak to him, and talked as she
would have done to Peters. She spoke of his northern visit and,
following his lead, of her work, freely and without embarrassment. Every
moment the restraint that had been between them seemed growing less. She
marvelled that she had ever found him unapproachable and wondered,
contritely, if her shyness had been alone to blame. She had been always
constrained and silent with him--small wonder that he had avoided her,
she thought humbly. Yet how could it have been otherwise? The tie
between them, the wonderful generosity he had shown, the aloofness he
had maintained, had made it impossible for her to view him as an
ordinary human being. She owed him everything and passionate recognition
and a sense of her indebtedness had grown with equal fervour. She had
almost worshipped him. He had taken her from a life that had grown
unbearable, he had given her the opportunity to follow the career for
which she longed. She could never repay him, she found it difficult to
put into words even to herself just what she felt towards him. From the
first she had raised him to the empty pedestal vacated by that fallen
idol, her father. And out of hero-worship had grown love, at first the
exalted devotion of an immature girl, adoration that was purely sexless
and selfless--a mystical love without passion, spiritual. He had
appeared to her as a being of another sphere and, mentally, she had
knelt at his feet as to a patron saint. But with her own development
love had expanded. She realised that what she felt for him was no longer
childish adoration, but a greater, more wonderful emotion. She had grown
to a full understanding of her own heart, the divinity had become a man
for whose love she yearned. But she loved hopelessly as she loved
deeply, she had no thought that her love could be returned. His
proximity had always troubled her, and to-day as she sat on the window
seat beside him she was conscious of a greater unrest than she had ever
before felt, and her heart throbbed painfully with the vague formless
longings, inexplicable and frightening, that stirred within her until it
seemed impossible that her agitation could pass unnoticed. Shyness fell
on her again, the ready words faltered, and gradually she became silent.
Craven took the empty coffee cups and replaced them on the table by the
fire. Going back to the window he found her kneeling up on the cushioned
seat, her hands clasped before her, looking out at the white world. The
childish attitude that seemed in keeping with the artist's blouse and
tumbled hair made her look singularly young. He stood beside her, so
close that he almost touched her shoulder, and his eyes ranged hungrily
over the whole slim beauty of her, lingering on the little bent brown
head, the soft curve of her girlish bosom, until the yearning for her
grew intolerable and the restraint he put upon himself took all his
resolution. The temptation to gather her into his arms was almost more
than he could resist, he folded them tightly across his chest--he could
not trust them. He could barely trust himself. The unwonted intimacy,
the subtle torture of her nearness set his pulses leaping madly. The
blood beat in his head, his body quivered with the passionate longing,
the fierce desire that rushed over him. In the agony of the moment only
the elemental man existed, and he was sensible alone of the burning
physical need that rose above all higher purer sentiment. To hold her
crushed against his throbbing heart, to bury his face in the fragrance
of her soft hair, to kiss her lips till she should beg his mercy--there
seemed no greater joy on earth. He wanted her as he had wanted nothing
in his life before. And yet, if he gained what he had come to ask he
knew that what he suffered now would be as nothing to what he would have
to endure. To know her his wife, bound in every sense to him--and to
turn his face from the happiness that by all laws was his! Had he the
strength? Almost it seemed that he had not. He was only human--and there
was a limit to human endurance. If circumstances proved too hard.... The
sound of a little smothered cough checked his thoughts abruptly. He
realised that in self-commiseration he had lost sight of the purpose of
his visit. It was only she who mattered; her health, her happiness that
must be considered. He cursed himself and searched vainly for words to
express what he must say. And the more he thought the more utterly
speech evaded him. Then chance aided. She coughed again and with a
little impatient gesture rose to her feet.

"Aunt Caro has decided to go to Cimiez for the rest of the winter--
because of my cough. She settled it while you were away. I don't want
to go, my cough is nothing. I wouldn't exchange this"--pointing to
the snow-clad park--"for all the warmth and sunshine of the Riviera.
I want to store up all the memories I can. You don't know how I have
learned to love the Towers." It was as if the last words had escaped
unintentionally for she flushed and turned again abruptly to the
darkening window. His heart gave a sudden leap but he did not move.

"Then why leave it?" he asked brusquely.

She leaned her forehead on the frosting glass and her eyes grew misty.

"You _know_," she said softly, and her voice trembled. "In all the
world I have only my--my talent and my self-respect. If I were to do
what you and Aunt Caro, in your wonderful generosity, propose--oh,
don't stop me, you _must_ listen--I should only have my talent left.
Can't you see, can't you understand that I must work, that I must
prove my self-respect? For all that you have done, for all that
you have given me I have tried to thank you--often. Always you have
stopped me. Do you grudge me the only way in which I can show my
gratitude, the only way in which I can prove myself worthy of your
esteem?" Her voice broke in a little sob. Then she turned to him
quickly, her hands out-stretched and quivering. "If I could only
do something to repay----" she cried, with a passionate earnestness
he had never heard in her before. He caught at the opening that
offered. "You can," he said quietly, "but it is so big a thing--it
would more than swamp the debt you think you owe me."

"Tell me," she whispered urgently as he paused.

He turned from her eager questioning face with acute embarrassment. He
hated himself, he hated his task, only the darkness of the room seemed
to make it possible.

"Gillian," he said, with constrained gravity. "I came to you to-day
deliberately to ask you what I believe no man has any right to ask a
woman. I have tried all the afternoon to tell you. Something you said
just now makes it easier. You say you love the Towers--do you love it
well enough to stay here as its mistress, on the only terms that I can
offer?"

The look of incredulous horror that leaped into her startled eyes made
him realise suddenly the interpretation that might be put upon his
words. He caught her hands almost roughly. "Good heavens, child, not
that!" he cried aghast. "What do you take me for? I am asking you to
marry me--but not the kind of marriage that every woman has the right to
expect. If I could offer you that, God knows how willingly I would. But
there has been that in my life which comes between me and the happiness
that other men can look forward to. For me that part of life is over. I
have only friendship to offer. I know I am asking more than it seems
possible for you to grant, more, a thousand times more than I ought to
ask you--but I do ask it, most earnestly. If you can bring yourself to
make so great a sacrifice, if you can accept a marriage that will be a
marriage only in name----"

She shuddered from him with a bitter cry. "You are offering me
_charity_!" she wailed, struggling to free her hands. But he held them
firmer. "I am asking you to take pity on a very lonely man," he said
gently. "I am asking you to care for a very lonely house. You have
brought sunshine into the Towers, you have brought sunshine into the
lives of many people living on the estate. I am asking you to stay where
you are so much wanted--so much--loved."

Then he let her go and she walked unsteadily to the fireplace. She stood
for a moment, her fingers working convulsively, staring into the
smouldering embers, and then sank into a chair, for her limbs were
shaking under her. He followed slowly and stooped to stir the fire to a
blaze. Covertly she looked at him as the red light illuminated his face
and scalding tears gathered in her eyes. And, curiously, it was not
wholly of herself that she was thinking. She was envying, with a feeling
of hopeless intolerable pain, that other woman whom he had loved. For
his words could only have meant one thing, and the great sorrow she had
imagined seemed all at once explained. She wondered what manner of woman
she had been, if she had died--or if she had proved unworthy. And the
last thought roused a sudden fierce resentment--how could a woman who
had won his love throw it back at his feet, unwanted! The envious tears
welled over and she brushed them furtively away. Then her thoughts
turned in compassion to him. Through death or faithlessness love had
brought no joy to him--he suffered as she was suffering now. She looked
at the silver threads gleaming in his hair, at the deep lines in his
face and the pain in her eyes gave place to a wonderful tenderness. She
had prayed for a chance to show her gratitude; if what he asked could
bring any alleviation to his life, if her presence could bring any sort
of comfort to his loneliness, was not even that more than she had ever
dared to hope? That he should turn to her was understandable. He had men
friends in plenty, but women he openly and undisguisedly avoided. He had
grown used to her presence at the Towers, a marriage such as he
proposed would call for no great alteration in the daily routine to
which he had become accustomed. If by doing this she could in any way
repay....

The replenished fire was filling the room with soft flickering light, it
cast strange shadows on the curtained walls and revealed the girl's
strained white face pitilessly. Craven had risen and was standing
looking down on her. She grew aware of his scrutiny and flinched, the
hot blood rolling slowly, painfully over her face and neck. He spoke
abruptly, as if the words were forced from him:

"But I want you to realise fully what this marriage with me would mean,
for it is a very big sacrifice I am asking of you. Whatever happened,
you would be bound to me. If"--his voice faltered momentarily--"if you
were sometime to meet a man--and love him--you would be my wife, you
would not be free to follow your heart."

She stared straight before her, her hands clasped tight around her
knees, shivering slightly. "I shall never--want to marry--in that way,"
she said in a strangled voice. He smiled sadly. "You think that now--you
are very young," he argued, "but we have the future to think of."

She did not answer and in the silence that ensued he wondered what had
induced him to put forward an argument that might defeat his purpose. In
any other case it would have been only the honourable thing to do, but
in this it was a risk he should not have taken. He moved impatiently.
Then suddenly he leaned forward and laid his hands on her shoulders,
drawing her gently to her feet.

"Gillian!"

Slowly she raised her head. The touch of his hands was almost more than
she could bear, but she steadied her trembling lips and met his gaze
bravely as he spoke again.

"If you will agree to this--this _mariage de convenance_, I will do all
that lies in my power to make your life happy. You will be free in
everything. I ask nothing but that you will look on me as a friend to
whom you can always come in any difficulty or any trouble. You will be
complete mistress of yourself, your time, your inclinations. I will not
interfere with you in any way."

She searched his face, trying to read what lay behind his inscrutable
expression. His eyes were kind, but there was in them a curious
underlying gleam that she could not understand. And his voice puzzled
her. She was bewildered, torn with conflicting doubts. Sensitively she
shrank from his inexplicable suggestion, she could see no reason for his
amazing proposal save an extraordinary generosity that filled her with
gratitude and yet against which she revolted.

"You are doing this in pity!" she cried miserably.

"Before God I swear that I am not," he said, with unexpected fierceness
that startled her, and the sudden painful gripping of the strong hands
on her shoulders made her for the first time aware of his strength. She
thought of it wonderingly. If it had been otherwise, if he had loved
her, how gladly she would have surrendered to it. It would have stood
between her and the unknown world that loomed sometimes in spite of her
confidence with a sinister horror on which she dared not dwell. In the
safety of his arms she would never have known fear, his strength would
have shielded her through life. And, in a lesser degree, his strength
might still be hers to turn to, if she would. A new conception of the
future she had planned rushed over her, the confidence she had felt fell
suddenly away, leaving fear and dread and a terror of loneliness. His
touch had destroyed her faith in herself. It had done more. In some
subtle way it seemed to her he had by his touch claimed her. And with
his hands still pressing her shoulders she felt a strange inability to
oppose him. He had sworn that it was not pity that dictated his offer.
He had said that love did not exist for him. What then could be his
motive? She could find none.

"You wouldn't lie to me?" she whispered, tormented with doubt, "you wish
this--this marriage--truly?"

He looked at her steadily.

"I wish it, truly," he said firmly.

"You would let me go on with my work?" she faltered, fighting for time.

"I have said that I would not interfere with you in any way, that you
would be free in everything," he answered, and as if in earnest of the
freedom promised his hands slipped from her.

The fire had died down again, and the room was almost dark, he could
hardly see her where she stood. He waited, hoping she would speak, then
abruptly: "Can you give me an answer, Gillian?"

He heard the quick intake of her breath, felt her trembling beside him.

"Oh, if you would give me time," she murmured entreatingly. "I want to
think. It means so much."

"Take all the time you wish," he said, and went quietly away. And his
going brought a sudden desolation. She longed to call him back, to
promise what he asked, to yield without further struggle. But
uncertainty held her. Motionless she stood staring through the darkness
at the dim outline of the door that had closed behind him, her breast
heaving tumultuously, until tears blinded her and with a gasping sob she
slipped to the floor. She had never dared to hope that he could love
her, but the truth from his own lips was bitter. And for a time the
realisation of that bitterness deadened all other feeling. Overwrought
with the emotion of the last few hours, her nerves strained to breaking
point, she was unable to check the tide of grief that shook her to the
very depths of her being. With her face hidden in the soft rug, her
outflung hands clenching convulsively, she wept in an abandonment of
sorrow.

If he had never spoken, if he had never made this strange proposal but
had maintained until the end the detached reserve that had seemed to set
so wide a gulf between them, it would have been easier to bear. He would
have passed out of her life, inscrutable as he had always been. But with
his change of attitude, in the intimacy of the few hours they had spent
alone, she had seen him with new eyes. The mysterious unapproachable
guardian had gone for ever, and in his place was a very human man
revealing characteristics she had never imagined to exist, showing an
interest and a gentleness she had never suspected. He had exhibited a
similarity of tastes and ideas that agreed extraordinarily with her
own, he had talked as to a comrade. The companionship had been very
sweet--very sorrowful. She could never think of him again as he had
been, and the new conception of him gave a poignant stab to her grief.
In the brief happiness of the afternoon she had had a fleeting vision
of what might have been "if he had loved me," she moaned, and it seemed
to her that she had never known until now the real depth of her own love.
What she had felt before was not comparable with the overwhelming passion
that the touch of his hands had quickened. It swept her like a raging
torrent, carrying her beyond the limit of her understanding, bringing
with it strange yearnings that, half-understood, she shuddered from,
ashamed.

Torn with emotion she wept until she had no tears left, until the
hard racking sobs died away and her tired sorrow-shaken body lay still.
For the moment, exhausted, her agony of mind was dulled and time was
non-existent. She did not move or lift her head from the tear-wet rug.
A great weariness seemed to deaden all faculty. The minutes passed
unnoticed. Then some latent consciousness stirred in her brain and
she looked up startled.

It was quite dark and she realised, shivering, that the room had grown
very cold. The calm afternoon had given place to a stormy night and
heavy gusts of wind were sweeping round the angle of the house,
shrieking and whistling eerily; from the window came the soft _swish
swish_ of dry hard snow beating against the panes. She started to her
feet. She had no idea of the hour but she knew it must be late. Perhaps
the dinner gong had already sounded and, missed, somebody might come in
search of her. She shrank from being found thus. Feeling her way to a
lamp she turned the switch and the soft light flooding the room made her
wince. A glance at her watch showed that she had still a few moments in
which to gain her room unobserved.

She felt oddly lightheaded and her feet dragged wearily. The tortuous
passage had never seemed so interminable, the succession of closed doors
appeared unending. Reaching her own room she collapsed on to a sofa that
was drawn up before the fire, her head aching, her limbs shivering
uncontrollably, worn out with emotion. Exhausted in mind and body she
seemed unable even to frame a thought logically or coherently--only an
interrupted medley of unconnected ideas chased through her tired brain
until her temples throbbed agonisingly. She knew that sometime she would
have to rouse herself, that sometime a decision would have to be made,
but not now. Now she could only lie still and make no effort. She was
angry with herself, contemptuous of her weakness. She had disdained
nerves, she was humiliated now by her present lack of control. But even
self-scorn was a passing thought from which she turned wearily.

One fact only remained, clear and distinct from the confusion in her
mind--he did not love her. He did not love her. It hurt so. She hid her
face in the pillows, writhing with the shame the knowledge of her own
love brought her. The deep booming of the dinner gong awoke her to the
necessity of some kind of action. She rang the bell that hung within
reach of her hand and, by the maid who answered her summons, sent her
excuses to Miss Craven, pleading a headache for remaining upstairs.

A few minutes later Mary, grim-visaged and big-hearted, appeared with a
tray, headache remedies and multifarious messages from the dining room.
She bathed the girl's aching head, brushing the tumbled brown hair and
piling it afresh into a soft loose knot. Grumbling gently at the long
hours of work to which she attributed the unusual indisposition, she
took full advantage of the rare opportunity of rendering personal
attention and fussed to her heart's content, stripping off the stained
overall and substituting a loose velvet wrapper; and then stood over
her, a kindly martinet, until the light dinner she had brought was
eaten. Afterwards she packed pillows, made up the fire, and administered
a particularly nauseous specific emanating from a homeopathic medicine
chest that was her greatest pride, and then took herself away, still
mildly admonishing.

Gillian leaned back against the cushions with a feeling of greater ease
and restfulness. Food had given her strength and under Mary's
ministrations her mental poise had steadied. She would not let herself
dwell on the question that must before long be settled, Miss Craven
would be coming soon, and until she had been and gone no definite
settlement could be attempted.

She lay looking at the fire, endeavouring to keep her mind a blank. It
was odd to be alone, she missed the familiar black form lying on the
hearth-rug, but tonight she could not bear even Mouston's presence,
and Mary had taken a request to Yoshio, to whose room the dog had been
banished from the studio, that he would keep him until the morning.

A tap at the door and Miss Craven appeared, anxious and questioning.

"Only a headache?--my dear, I don't believe it!" she protested, plumping
down on the side of the sofa and clutching at her hair, that sure sign
of perturbation. "You've never had a headache like this before. You've
been working too hard. You were painting all the morning and they tell
me you worked throughout the afternoon and had no tea. Gillian, dear,
when will you learn sense? I don't at all approve of you having tea
sent to the studio _only_ when you ring for it. Young people require
regular meals and as often as not neglect 'em; young artists are the
worst offenders--you needn't contradict me, I know all about it. I
did it myself." She patted the clasped hands lying near her and
scrutinised the girl more closely. "You're as pale as a ghost and
your eyes are too bright. Did Mary take your temperature? No?--the
woman must have lost her senses. I'll telephone to Doctor Harris to
come and see you in the morning. If you looked a fraction more feverish
I'd send for you to-night, storm or no storm. Peter braved it, open car
as usual. He sent his love. Barry turned up from Scotland this afternoon.
He looks very tired--says he had a bothering time and a wretched
journey--Gillian!" she cried sharply as the girl slid from the sofa
on to her knees beside her and raised a quivering piteous face.

"Aunt Caro, I'm not ill," the words came in tumbling haste, "there's
nothing bodily the matter with me--I'm only dreadfully unhappy. I know
Mr. Craven is back--he came to me in the studio this afternoon. He asked
me to marry him," the troubled voice sank to a whisper, "and I--I don't
know what to do."

"My dear." The tenderness of Miss Craven's tone sent a strangling wave
of emotion into Gillian's throat. "Aunt Caro, did you know? Do you wish
it too?" she murmured wistfully.

Unwilling to admit a previous knowledge which would be difficult to
explain, Miss Craven temporised. "I very greatly hoped for it," she said
guardedly; "you and Barry are all I have to care for, and you are both
so--alone. I know you think of a very different life, I know you have
dreams of making a career for yourself. But a career is not all that a
woman wants in her life; it can perhaps mean independence and fame, it
can also mean great loneliness and the loss of the full and perfect
happiness that should be every woman's. You mustn't judge all cases by
me. I have been happy in my own way but I want a greater, richer
happiness for you, dear. I want for you the best that the world can
give, and that best I believe to be the shelter and the safety of a
man's love."

The brown head dropped on her knee. "You are thinking of me--I am
thinking of him," came a stifled whisper.

Miss Craven stroked the soft hair tenderly. "Then why not give him what
he asks, my dear," she said gently. "He has known sorrow and suffering.
If through you, he can forget the past in a new happiness, will you not
grant it him? Oh, Gillian, I have so hoped that you might care for each
other; that, together, you might make the Towers the perfect home it
should be, a home of mutual trust and love. You and Barry and, please
God, after you--your children." She choked with unexpected emotion and
brushed the mist from her eyes impatiently.

And at her knee Gillian knelt motionless, her lip held fast between her
teeth to stop the bitter cry that nearly escaped her, her heart almost
bursting. The picture Miss Craven's words called up was an ideal of
happiness that might have been. The suffering that reality promised
seemed more than she could contemplate. What happiness could come from
such a travesty? The strange yearnings she had experienced seemed
suddenly crystallised into form, and the knowledge was a greater pain
than she had known. What she would have gone down to the gates of death
to give him he did not require--the unutterable joy that Miss Craven
suggested would never be hers. She searched for words, for an
explanation of her silence that must seem strange to the elder woman.
Miss Craven obviously knew nothing of the unusual conditions attached to
his proposal, her words proved it, and Gillian could not tell her. She
could not betray his confidence even if she had so wished. If she could
but speak frankly and show all her difficulty to the friend who had
never yet failed in love and sympathy----She sought refuge in
prevarication. "How can I marry him?" she cried miserably. "You don't
know anything about me. I'm not a fit person to be his wife--my
antecedents----"

"Bother your antecedents!" interrupted Miss Craven, with a somewhat
shaky laugh. "My dearest girl, Barry isn't going to marry them, he's
going to marry you. They can have been anything you like or imagine but
it does not alter the fact that their daughter is the one woman on earth
I want for Barry's wife." She stooped and gathered the girl into her
arms.

"Gillian, can you give us, Barry and me, this great happiness?"

Gently Gillian disengaged herself and rose slowly to her feet. She made
a little helpless gesture, swaying as she stood. "What can I say?" she
said brokenly. "Do you think it means nothing to me! Don't you know that
what I already owe you and Mr. Craven is almost more than I can bear,
that I would give my life for either of you? But this--oh, you don't
understand--I can't tell you--I can't explain----" She dropped back on
the sofa and her voice came muffled and entreatingly from among the
silken cushions, "If you knew how I long to repay you for your wonderful
goodness, if you knew what your love has meant to me! Oh, dearest, I'd
give the world to please you! But I don't know what to do, I don't know
what is honest--and you can't help me, nobody can help me. I've got to
settle it myself. I've got to think----"

Miss Craven guessed the crying need for solitude conveyed in the last
faltering words and rose in obedience to the unspoken request. She stood
for a moment, looking tenderly down on the slim prostrate figure, and a
fear that grew momentarily stronger came to her that in her endeavour to
bring happiness to these two lives she had blundered fatally. She had
been a fool, rushing in. And with almost a feeling of dismay she
realised it was beyond her ability now to stay what she had put in
motion. She was as one who, having wantonly released some complex
mechanism, stands aghast and powerless at the consequence of his
rashness. And yet, despite the seeming setback to her hopes, the
conviction that had urged her to this step was still strong in her; she
still had faith in its ultimate achievement. She touched the girl's
shoulder in a quick caress. "You are worn out, child. Go to bed and rest
now, and think to-morrow," she said soothingly.

For long after she left the room Gillian lay without moving. Then with a
long shuddering sigh she sat up. She tried to concentrate on the
decision she must make but her thoughts, ungovernable, dwelt
persistently on the unknown woman whom she had convinced herself he must
have loved, and the passionate envy she had felt before swept her again
until the pain of it sent a whispered prayer to her lips for strength to
put it from her. Huddled on the side of the sofa, her head supported on
her hands, she stared fixedly into the fire as if seeking in the leaping
flames the answer to the problem that confronted her. Then in her agony
of mind inaction became impossible and she rose and paced the room with
hurried nervous tread.

To do what was right--to do what was honourable; to conquer the
clamorous self that cried out for acceptance of this semblance of
happiness that was offered. To bear his name, to have the right to be
near him, to care for him and for his interests as far as she might. To
be his wife--even if only in name. Dear God, did he know how he had
tempted her? But she had no right. The crushing burden of debt she owed
rose like an unsurpassable mountain between her and what she longed for.
Only by repayment could she keep her self-respect. The dreams of
independence, the place she had thought to make for herself in the
world, the re-establishing of her father's name--could she forego what
she had planned? Was it not a nobler aim than the gratification of self
that urged the easier way? Yet would it be the easier way? Was she not
really in her heart shrinking from the difficulty and sadness that this
loveless marriage would bring? Was it not cowardice that prompted a
supposed nobility of thought that now appeared ignoble? She wrung her
hands in desperation. Had she no courage or steadfastness at all? Was
the weakness of purpose that had ruined her father's life to be her
curse as it had been his?

She felt suddenly very young, very inexperienced. Her early training
that had denied the exercise of individual responsibility and had
inculcated a passivity of mind that precluded self-determination had
bitten deeper than she knew. Her life since leaving the convent had been
smooth and uneventful, there had been no occasion to practise the new
liberty of thought and action that was hers. And now before a decision
that would be so irrevocable, that would involve her whole life--and not
hers alone--she felt to the full the disability of her upbringing. Alone
she must make her choice and she shrank from the burden of
responsibility that fell upon her. She had nobody to turn to for counsel
or advice. In her loneliness she longed for the solace of a mother's
tenderness, the shelter of a mother's arms, and bitterness came to her
as she thought of the parents who had each in their turn abandoned her
so callously. She had been robbed of her birthright of love and care.
She was alone in the world, alone to fight her own battles, alone in the
moment of her direst need.

Then all at once she seemed to see in the trend of her thoughts
only a supreme selfishness that had lost sight of all but personal
consideration. Was her love of so little worth that in thought
for herself she had forgotten him? He had asked her to pity his
loneliness--and she had had only pity for herself. Her lips quivered
as she whispered his name in an agony of self-condemnation.

Coming back slowly to the fireside she slipped to the floor and leaned
her head against the sofa listening to the storm that beat with
increasing violence against the house, and the roar of the tempest
without seemed in strange agreement with the tumult that was raging in
her heart. The words he had used came back to her. Did it really lie in
her power to lessen the loneliness of his life? To give him what he
asked--was not that, after all, the true way to pay her debt? With a
little sob she bowed her head on her hands.... An hour later she rose
stiffly, cramped with long sitting, and moving nearer to the fire chafed
her cold hands mechanically. Her face was very sad and her wide eyes
heavy with unshed tears. She drew a long sobbing breath. "Because I love
him," she murmured. "If I didn't love him I couldn't do it." A thought
that brought new hope came to her. She loved him so deeply, might not
her love, she wondered wistfully, perhaps some day be strong enough to
heal the wound he had sustained--strong enough even to compel his love?
Then doubt seized hold on her again. Would she, in the limited scope
that she would have, find opportunity--would he ever allow her to get
near enough to him?... She flung her hands out in passionate appeal.

"Oh, God! if this thing that I am doing is wrong, if it brings sorrow
and unhappiness, let me be the only one to pay!"

A sudden longing to make retraction impossible came over her. She looked
anxiously at her watch. Was it too late to go to him to-night? Only when
she had told him would she be sure of herself. Her word once given there
could be no withdrawal.

It was nearly midnight but she knew he rarely left his study until
later. Peters would be gone, he was methodical in his habits and retired
punctually at eleven o'clock with a regularity that was unvarying. She
was sure of finding him alone. She dared not wait until the morning, she
must go now while she had the courage. Delay might bring new doubts, new
uncertainty. Impulsively she started towards the door, then paused on a
sudden thought that sent the warm blood in a painful wave to her face.
Would he misunderstand, think her unwomanly, attribute her hasty
decision to a sordid desire for material gain, for the ease that would
be hers, for the position that his name would give? It was the natural
thought for him who offered so much to one who would give nothing in
return. And not for him alone--in the eyes of the world she would be
only a little adventuress who had skilfully seized the opportunity that
circumstance had given to advantage herself. But the world did not
matter, she thought with scornful curling lip, it was only in his eyes
that she desired to stand well. Then with quick shame she knew that the
sentiments she had ascribed to him were unworthy, the outcome only of
her own strained imagination, and she put them from her. She went
quickly to the gallery, dimly lit from a single lamp left alight in the
hall below--left for Craven as she knew. Silence brooded over the great
house. The storm that earlier had beat tempestuously against the dome as
if striving to shatter the massive glass plates that opposed its fury
had blown itself out and glancing upward Gillian saw the huge cupola
shrouded with snow that gleamed palely in the soft light. The stillness
oppressed her and odd thoughts chased through her mind. She looked to
right and left nervously and in a sudden inexplicable panic sped down
the wide staircase and across the shadowy hall until she reached the
study door. There she halted with wildly beating heart, panting and
breathless. It was a room which she had never before entered, and an
almost paralysing shyness made her shake from head to foot. Nerving
herself with a strong effort she tapped with trembling fingers and, at
the sound of an answering voice, went in.

Strength seemed all at once to leave her. Physically and mentally
exhausted, a feeling of unreality supervened. The strange room swam
before her eyes. As in a dream she saw him start to his feet and come
swiftly to her across a seemingly unending length of carpet that
billowed and wavered curiously, his big frame oddly magnified until he
appeared a very giant towering above her; as in a dream she felt him
take her ice-cold hands in his. But the warm strong grasp, the grave
eyes bent compellingly on her, dragged her back from the shuddering
abyss into which she was sinking. Far away, as though coming from a
great distance, she heard him speaking. And his voice, gentler than she
had ever known it, gave her courage to whisper, so low that he had to
bend his tall head to catch the fluttering words, the promise she had
come to give.




CHAPTER VII


On an afternoon in early September eighteen months after her marriage
Gillian was driving across the park toward the little village of Craven
that, old world and quite unspoiled, clustered round a tiny Norman
church two miles distant from the Towers. She leaned back in the
victoria, her hands clasped in her lap, preoccupied and thoughtful. A
scented heap of deep crimson roses and carnations lay at her feet;
beside her, in contrast to her listless attitude, Mouston sat up tense
and watchful, his sharp muzzle thrust forward, his black nose twitching
eagerly at the distracting agitating smells borne on the warm air
tempting him from monotonous inactivity to a soul satisfying scamper
over the short cropped grass but, conscious of the dignity of his
position, ignoring them with a gravity of demeanour that was almost
comical. Once or twice when his wrinkling nostrils caught some
particularly attractive odour his pads kneaded the cushions vigorously
and a snarly gurgle rose in his throat. But no other sign of
restlessness escaped him--it was patience bred of experience. For miles
around he was a well-known figure, sitting grave and motionless on his
accustomed side of the victoria as it rolled through the country lanes.
To the villagers of Craven, all directly or indirectly dependent on the
estate, he was welcome in that he was inseparable from the gentle
tender-hearted girl whom they worshipped, but their welcome was a
qualified one that never descended to the familiar; his strange
appearance and disdainful aloofness made him an object of curiosity to
be viewed with most safety from a respectful distance; time had not
accustomed them to him and tales of his uncanny understanding filtering
through, richly embroidered, to the village from the house, did not tend
to lessen the awe with which he was regarded. They marvelled, without
comprehension, at the partiality of his mistress; he was the "black
French devil" to more households than that of Major, the gamekeeper, an
"unorranary brute" to those of less gifted imagination.

To Mouston Gillian's periodical visits to the village were a tedium
endured for the sake of the coveted seat beside her.

The passing of a herd of deer, feeding intently and--save for one or two
more timid hinds who started nervously--too used to the carriage to heed
its approach, roused the poodle, as always, to a high pitch of
excitement; they were old enemies and his annoyance gave vent to a sharp
yelp as he sidled close to Gillian and endeavoured to attract her
attention with an insistent paw. But for once she was heedless of the
hints of her dumb companion, and, whining, he slunk back into his own
corner, curling up on the seat with his forepaws brushing the mass of
scented blossom. And ignorant of the pleading brown eyes fixed
pathetically on her, Gillian followed the train of her own troubled
thoughts. For eighteen months she had been Barry Craven's wife, for
eighteen months she had endeavoured to fulfill her share of the contract
they had made--and to herself she admitted failure.

The strain was becoming unendurable.

In the eyes of the world an ideal couple, in reality--she wondered if in
the whole universe there were two more lonely souls than they. She knew
now that the task she had set herself that stormy December night was
beyond her power, that it had been the unattainable dream of an immature
love-sick girl. She had fought to retain her high ideals, to believe
that love--as great, as unselfish as hers--must beget love, but she had
come to realise the utter futility of her dream and to wonder at the
childish ignorance that had inspired it. The sustaining hope that she
might indeed be a comfort to his loneliness had died hard, but surely.
For he gave her no opportunity. Despite unfailing kindness and
overwhelming generosity he maintained always a baffling reserve
she found impossible to penetrate. Of his inner self she knew no
more than she had ever done, she could get no nearer to him. But in
all matters that dealt with their common life he was scrupulously frank
and out-spoken; he had insisted on her acquiring a knowledge of his
interests and a working idea of his affairs, from which she had shrunk
sensitively, but he had persisted, arguing that in the event of his
death--Peters not being immortal--it was necessary that she should be
able to administer possessions that would be hers--and the thought of
those possessions crushed her. It was only after a long struggle, in
distress that horrified him, that she persuaded him to forego the big
settlement he proposed making. If she had not loved him his liberality
would have hurt her less, but because of her love his money was a
scourge. She hated the wealth to which she felt she had no right, to
herself she seemed an impostor, a cheat. She felt degraded. She would
rather he had bought her, as women have from time immemorial been
bought, that she might have paid the price, as they pay, and so retained
the self-respect that now seemed for ever lost. It would have been a
means of re-establishing herself in her own eyes, of easing the burden
of his bounty that grew daily heavier and from which she could never
escape. It was evident in all about her; in the greater state and
ceremony observed at the Towers since their marriage, which, while it
pleased the household, who rejoiced in the restoration of the old
rgime, oppressed her unspeakably; in the charities she dispensed--his
charities that brought her no sense of sacrifice, no joy of self-denial;
in the social duties that poured in upon her.

His wealth served only to strengthen the barrier between them, but for
that she might have been to him what she longed to be. If the talent
that now seemed so useless could have been used for him she would have
found a measure of happiness even if love had never come to crown her
service. In poverty she would have worked for him, slaved for him, with
the strength and tirelessness that only love can give. But here the
gladness of giving, of serving, was denied, here there was nothing she
might do and the futility of her life choked her. She had
conscientiously endeavoured to assume the responsibilities and duties of
her new position, but there seemed little for her to do, for the big
household ran smoothly on oiled wheels under the capable administration
of Forbes and Mrs. Appleyard, with whom, both honest and devoted to the
interests of the family they had served so long and faithfully, she knew
it was unnecessary and unwise to interfere. In any unusual circumstance
they would refer to her with tactful deference but for the rest she knew
that, perforce, she must be content to remain a figure-head. Even her
work--interrupted constantly by the social duties incumbent on her and
performed from a sense of obligation--failed to comfort and distract. It
was all so utterly useless and purposeless. The gift with which she had
thought to do so much was wasted. She could do nothing with it. She was
no longer Gillian Locke who had dreamed of independence, who had hoped
by toil and endeavour to clear the stain from her father's name. She
was the rich Mrs. Craven--who must smile to hide a breaking heart,
who must play the part expected of her, who must appear always
care-free and happy. And the constant effort was almost more than
she could achieve. In the ceaseless watch she set upon herself, in
the rigid self-suppression she exercised, it seemed to her as if her
true self had died, and her entity faded into an automaton that moved
in mechanical obedience to the driving of her will. Only during the
long night hours or in the safe seclusion of the studio could she
relax, could she be natural for a little while. That Craven might
never learn the misery of her life, that she might not fail him as
she had failed herself, was her one prayer. She welcomed eagerly the
advent of guests, of foreign guests--more exigent in their demands
upon her society--particularly; with the house filled the time of
host and hostess was fully occupied and the difficult days passed
more easily, more quickly. The weeks they spent alone she dreaded;
from the morning greeting in the breakfast room to the moment when
he gave her the quiet "Good-night" that might have come from an
undemonstrative brother, she was in terror lest an unguarded word,
a chance expression, might tell him what she sought to keep from him.
But so insensible did his own constant pre-occupation of mind make him
appear of much that passed, that she feared his intuition less than
that of Peters who she was convinced had a very shrewd idea of the
state of affairs existing between them. It was manifested in diverse
ways; not by any spoken word direct or indirect, but by additional
fatherly tenderness of manner, by unfailing tactfulness, by quick
intervention that had saved many awkward situations. It was practically
impossible in view of his almost daily association with the house and
its inmates that he could be unaware of certain facts. But the wise
kindly eyes that she had feared most were closed for ever.

The Great Summons for which Miss Craven had been so calmly prepared had
come more suddenly, more tragically even than she had anticipated. She
had passed over as she would have wished, had she been given the choice,
not in the awful loneliness of death but one of a company of heroic
souls who had voluntarily and willingly stood aside that others might
have the chance to live.

A few months after the marriage on which she had set her heart the
family curse had seized her as suddenly and as imperatively as it had
ever done her nephew. An exhibition of statuary in America had served as
an adequate excuse and she had started at comparatively short notice,
accompanied by the faithful Mary, after a stormy interview with her
doctor, whose gloomy warnings she refuted with the undeniable truism
that one land was as good as another to die in. Within a few hours of
the American coast the tragedy, short and overwhelming, had occurred.
From the parent ice a thousand miles away in the north the stupendous
white destruction had moved majestically down its appointed course to
loom out of the pitch-black night with appalling consequence. A sudden
crash, slight enough to be unnoticed by hundreds, a convulsive shudder
of the great ship like the death struggle of a Titan, had been followed
by unquellable panic, confusion of darkness, inadequate boats and
jamming bulkheads. Miss Craven and Mary were among the first on deck and
for the short space of time that remained they worked side by side among
the terror-stricken women and children, their own life-belts early
transferred to dazed mothers who clutched wild-eyed at wailing babes.
Together they had stood back from the overcrowded boats, smiling and
unafraid; together they had gone down into the mystery of the deep, two
gallant women, no longer mistress and maid but sisters in sacrifice and
in the knowledge of that greater love for which they cheerfully laid
down their lives.

And while Gillian mourned her bitterly she was yet glad that Miss Craven
was spared the sadness of witnessing the complete failure of her
cherished dream.

In the little Norman church toward which Gillian was driving there had
been added yet another memorial to a Craven who had died tragically and
far from home; a record of disastrous calamity that, beginning four
hundred years before with the Elizabethan gallant, had relentlessly
pursued an ill-starred family. The church lay on the outskirts of the
village and close to the south entrance of the park.

Gillian stopped the carriage for a few moments to speak to the
anxious-looking woman who had hurried out from the creeper-covered
lodge to open the gates. Behind one of the casements of the cottage
a child was fighting for life, a cripple, with an exquisite face,
whom Gillian had painted. To the sorrowful mother the eager tender
words, the soft impulsive hand that clasped her own work-roughened
palm, the wide dark eyes, misty with sympathy were worth infinitely
more than the material aid, so carefully packed by Mrs. Appleyard,
that the footman carried up the narrow nagged path to the cottage door.

And as the impatient horses drew the carriage swiftly on again Gillian
leaned back in her seat with a quivering sigh. The woman at the lodge,
despite her burden of sorrow, despite her humbleness, was yet richer
than she and, with intolerable pain, she envied her the crowning joy of
womanhood that would never be her own. The child she longed for would
never by the touch baby hands bring consolation to her starved and
lonely heart. Her thoughts turned to her husband in a sudden passion of
hopeless love and longing. To bear him a child--to hold in her arms a
tiny replica of the beloved figure that was so dear to her, to watch and
rejoice in the dawning resemblance that the ardour of her love would
make inevitable.... Hastily she brushed away the gathering tears as the
carriage stopped abruptly with a jingle of harness at the lichgate.

Coaxing the reluctant Mouston from the seat where he still sulked she
tied him to the gate, took the armful of flowers from the grave-faced
footman, and dismissing the carriage walked slowly up the lime-bordered
avenue. The orderliness and beauty of the churchyard struck her as it
always did--a veritable garden of sleep, with level close-shorn turf set
thick with standard rose trees, that even the clustering headstones
could not make chill and sombre.

From the radiant sunshine without she passed into the cool dimness of
the little building. With its tiny proportions, ornate and numerous
Craven memorials and--for its size--curiously large chancel, it seemed
less the parish church it had become than the private chapel for which
it had been built. Then the house had been close by, but during the
troublous years of Mary Tudor was pulled down and rebuilt on the present
site.

Through the quiet silence Gillian made her way up the short central
aisle until she reached the chancel steps. For a few minutes she knelt,
her face crushed against the flowers she held, in silent passionate
prayer that knew neither form nor words--a soundless supplication that
was an inchoate appeal to a God of infinite understanding. Then rising
slowly she pushed back the iron gate and went into the chancel. Directly
to the left the new monument gleamed cleanly white against the old dark
wall. Simple and bold, as she would herself have designed it, the
sculptor's memorial was the work of the greatest genius of the day who
had willingly come from France at Craven's invitation to perpetuate the
memory of a sister artist who had also been a lifelong friend.

A rugged pedestal of green bronze--with an inset panel representing the
tragedy--rose upward in the shape of billowing curling waves supporting
a marble Christ standing erect with outstretched pitying hand, majestic
and yet wholly human.

Gillian gazed upward with quivering lips at the Saviour's inclined
tender face, and opening her arms let the scented mass of crimson
blossom fall slowly to the slab at her feet that bore Miss Craven's name
and Mary's cut side by side.

    _"Greater love hath no man than this, that
    a man lay down his life for his friends."_

She read the words aloud, and with a stifled sob slipped down among the
roses and carnations that Caro Craven had loved, and leaned her aching
head against the cool hard bronze. "Dearest," she whispered, in an agony
of tears, "I wonder can you hear? I wonder are you allowed, where you
are, to know what happens here on earth? Oh, Aunt Caro, _cherie_, do you
know that I have failed--failed to bring him the peace and consolation I
thought my love was strong enough to give, I have tried so hard to
understand, to help ... I have prayed so earnestly that he might turn to
me, that I might be to him what you would have me be ... but I have not
been able ... I have failed him ... failed you ... myself. Oh, dearest,
do you know?"

Prone among the roses, at the feet of the pitying Christ, she cried
aloud in her desperate loneliness to the dead woman who had given her
the tenderest love she had ever known. The shadows lengthened widely
before she rose and drew the scattered flowers into a fragrant heap. She
stood for a while studying intently the relief of the wreck; it
suggested a train of thought, and with a sudden impulse she traversed
the chancel and sought among the memorials of dead Cravens for the
tablets commemorating those who had disappeared or died tragically. By
chance at first and later by design these had all been placed within the
confines of the chancel that formed so large a part of the tiny church.
Before the florid Italian monument that recorded all that was known of
the short life of the Elizabethan adventurer she paused long, looking
with quickening heart-beat at the graceful kneeling figure whose face
and form were those of the man she loved.

_Barry Craven ... he set his eyes unto the west_.... Amongst the
calamitous record there were four more of the name--their bodies
scattered widely in distant unknown graves, victims of the spirit of
adventure and unrest. She moved slowly from one to the other, reading
again the tragical inscriptions she knew by heart, cut as deeply in her
memory as on the marble slabs before her.

    _Barry Craven--Lost in the Amazon Forest_.
    _Barry Craven--In the silence of the frozen seas_.
    _Barry Craven--Perished in a sandstorm in the Sahara_.
    _Barry Craven--In Japan_.
    _Barry Craven--Barry Craven_.

The name leaped at her from all sides until, with a shudder, she buried
her face in her hands to shut out the staring capitals that flamed in
black and gold before her eyes. The dread that was with her always
seemed suddenly closer than it had ever been, menacing, inevitable.
Would the fear that haunted her day and night become at some not far
distant time an actual fact? Would the curse that had already led to ten
years' perpetual wandering lay hold of him again--would he, too, in
quest of the peace he had never found, disappear as they had done? Was
it for this that he had insisted on her acquiring a knowledge of his
affairs? With the quick intuition of love she had come to understand the
deep unrest that beset him periodically, an unrest she recognised as
wholly apart and separate from the other shadow that lay across his
life. With unfailing patience she had learned to discriminate. Covertly
she had watched him, striving to fathom the varying moods that swayed
him, endeavouring to anticipate the alternating frames of mind that made
any definite comprehension of his character so difficult. The charm of
manner and apparent serenity that led others to think of him as one
endowed beyond further desire with all that life could give did not
deceive her. He played a part, as she did, a part that was contrary to
his nature, contrary to his whole inclination. She guessed at the strain
on him, a strain it seemed impossible for him to endure, which some day
she felt must inevitably break. His habitual self-control was
extraordinary--once only during their married life had he lost it when
some event, jarring on his overstrung nerves, had evoked a blaze of
anger that seemed totally out of proportion to the circumstance, that
would have given her proof, had she needed one, of his state of mind.

His outburst had been a perfectly natural reaction, but while she
admitted the fact she felt a nervous dread of its recurrence.

She feared anything that might precipitate the upheaval that loomed
always before her like a threatening cloud. For sooner or later the
unrest that filled him would have to be satisfied. The curse of Craven
would claim him again and he would leave her. And she would have to
watch him go and wait in agony for his return as other women of the race
had watched and agonised. And if he went would he ever return? or would
she too know the anguish of suspense, the long drawn horror of
uncertainty, the fading hope that year by year would become slighter
until at last it would vanish altogether and the bitter waters of
despair close over her head? A moan, like the cry of a wounded animal,
broke from her. In vivid self-torturing imagination she saw among the
sinister record around her another tablet--that would mean finality. He
was the last of the Cravens. Did it mean nothing to him--had the sorrow
of that past that was unknown to her but which had become woven into her
own life so inextricably, so terribly, killed in him even the pride of
race? Had he, deep down in the heart that was hidden from her, no
thought of parenthood, no desire to perpetuate the family name, the
family traditions? It would seem that he had not--and yet she wondered.
The woman he had loved--of whose existence she had convinced herself--if
she had lived, or proved faithful, would he still have desired no son?
She shrank from the stabbing thought with a very bitter sob.

A sudden horror of her environment came over her. Around her were
suggestions from which she shuddered, evidences that raised the haunting
dread with which she lived to a culmination of fear. It had never seemed
so near, so strong. It was stronger than her will to put it from her and
in it, with inherent superstition, she saw a premonition. The little
peaceful church became all at once a place of terror, a grisly charnel
house of vanished hopes and lives. The spirits of countless Cravens
seemed all about her, hostile, malign, triumphing in her weakness,
rejoicing in her fear--spectral figures of the dead crowding, hurrying,
threatening. She seemed to see them, a dense and awful concourse,
closing round her, to hear them whispering, muttering, jibing--at her, a
thing apart, an alien soul whose presence they resented. The clamorous
voices rang in her ears; vague shapes, illusive and shadowy, appeared to
float before her eyes. She shrank from what seemed the contact of actual
bodily forms. Unnerved and overwrought she yielded to the horror of her
own imagination. With a stifled cry she turned and fled, her arms
outstretched to fend from her the invisible host that seemed so real,
not daring even to look again at the pitying Christ whose calm serenity
formed such a striking contrast to her storm-tossed heart.

Blindly she sped down the chancel steps, along the short central aisle,
out into the timbered porch, where she blundered sharply into somebody
who was on the point of entering. Who, it did not at the moment seem to
matter--enough that it was a human creature, real and tangible, to whom
she clung trembling and incoherent. A strong arm held her, and against
its strength she leaned for a few moments in the weakness of reaction
from the nervous strain through which she had passed. Then as she slowly
regained control of herself she realised the awkwardness of her
position, and her cheeks burned hotly. She drew back, her fingers
uncurling from the tweed coat they clutched so tightly, and, trying to
slip clear of the arm that still lay about her shoulders, looked up
shyly with murmured thanks.

Then: "David," she cried. "Oh, David----" and burst into tears. Guiding
her to the bench that rested against the side of the porch Peters drew
her down beside him. "Just David," he said, with rather a sad little
smile, "I was passing and Mouston told me you were here." He spoke
slowly, giving her time to recover herself, thanking fate that she had
collapsed into his arms rather than into those of some chattering
village busybody. He had caught a glimpse of her face as she came
through the church door and knew that her agitation was caused by
something more than sorrow for Miss Craven, great as that sorrow was. He
had seen fear in the hunted eyes that looked unrecognisingly into his--a
fear that he somehow resented with a feeling of helpless anger.

The affection he had for her was such as he would have given the
daughter that might have been his had providence been kinder. And with
the insight that affection gave he had seen, with acute uneasiness, a
steadily increasing change in her during the last eighteen months. The
marriage from which he, as well as Miss Craven, had hoped so much seemed
after all to have brought no joy to either husband or wife. With his
intimate knowledge and close association he saw deeper than the casual
visitor to whom the family life at the Towers appeared an ideal of
domestic happiness and concord. There was nothing he could actually
take hold of, Craven was at all times considerate and thoughtful,
Gillian a model of wifely attention. But there was an atmosphere
that, super-sensitive, he discerned, a vague underlying feeling of
tension that he tried to persuade himself was mere imagination but
which at the bottom of his heart he knew existed. There had been
times when he had seen them both, as it were, off their guard, had
read in the face of each the same bitter pain, the same look of
unsatisfied longing. Possessing in so high a degree everything that
life could give they appeared to have yet missed the happiness that
should by all reasoning have been theirs. Whose was the fault? Caring
for them both it was a question that he turned from in aversion, he
had no wish to judge between them, no desire to probe their hidden
affairs. Thrown constantly into their society while guessing much he
shut his eyes to more. But anxiety remained, fostered by the memory
of the tragedy of Barry's father and mother. Was he fated to see just
such another tragedy played out before him with no power to avert the
ruin of two more lives? The pity of it! He could do nothing and his
helplessness galled him.

To-day as he sat in the little porch with Gillian's hand clasped in his
he felt more than ever the extreme delicacy of his position. Intuitively
he guessed that he was nearer than he had ever been to penetrating the
cloud that shadowed her life and Barry's but with equal intuition he
knew he must convey no hint of his understanding. He gauged her shy
sensitive mind too accurately and his own loyalty debarred him from
forcing such a confidence. Instead he spoke as though the visit to Miss
Craven's memorial must naturally be the cause of her agitation.

"Why come, my dear, if it distresses you?" he said, in quiet
remonstrance; "she would not misunderstand. She had the sanest, the
healthiest conception of death. She died nobly--willingly. It would
sadden her immeasurably if she knew how you grieved." Her fingers worked
convulsively in his. "I know--I know," she whispered, "but, oh, David, I
miss her so--so inexpressibly." "We all do," he answered; "one cannot
lose a friend like Caro Craven lightly. But while we mourn the dead we
have the living to consider--and you have Barry," he added, with almost
cruel deliberation. She faced him with steady eyes from which she had
brushed all trace of tears.

"Barry understands," she said with quick loyalty; "he mourns her
too--but he doesn't _need_ her as I do." It was an undeniable truth
that reduced Peters to silence and for a while Gillian also was silent.
Then she turned to him again with a little tremulous smile, the colour
flooding her delicate face.

"I'm glad it was only you, David, just now. Please forget it. I don't
know what's the matter with me to-day, I let my nerves get the upper
hand--I'm tired--the sun was hot----"

"So of course you sent the carriage away and proposed walking two miles
home by way of a rest cure!" he interrupted, jumping up with alacrity,
and taking advantage of the turn in the conversation. "Luckily I've got
the car. Plenty of room for you and the pampered one." And waving aside
her protests he tucked her into the little two-seater, bundling Mouston
unceremoniously in after her.

The village school was near the church, and while Peters steered the car
carefully through groups of children who were loitering in the road she
sat silent beside him, wondering, in miserable self-condemnation, how
much she had betrayed during those few moments of hysterical outburst.
Resolutely she determined that she would be strong, strong enough to put
away the dread that haunted her, strong enough to meet trouble only when
it came.

Clear of the children and running smoothly through the park Peters
condescended to break the silence.

"How went Scotland?" he asked, slowing down behind a frightened fawn who
was straying on the carriage road and cantering ahead of the car in
panicky haste. "Your letters were not satisfactory."

"I wasn't taught to write letters. I never had any to write," she
said with a smile that made the sensitive man beside her wince. "I
did my best, David, dear. And there wasn't much to tell. There were
only men--Barry said he couldn't stand women with the guns again after
the bother they were last year. They were nice men, shy silent creatures,
big game hunters mostly, and two doctors who have been doing research
work in Central Africa. When any of them could be induced to talk of
their experiences it was a revelation to me of what men will endure and
yet consider enjoyment. You would have liked them, David. Why didn't
you come? It would have done you more good than that horrid little
yacht. And we were alone the last two weeks--we missed you," she added
reproachfully.

Peters had had his own reasons for absenting himself from the Scotch
lodge, reasons that, connected as they were with Craven and his wife, he
could not enlarge upon. He turned the question with a laugh.

"The yacht was better suited to a crusty old bachelor, my dear," he
smiled. Then he gave her a searching glance. "And what did you do all
day long by yourself while the men were on the hills?"

She gave a little shrug.

"I sketched--and--oh, lots of things," she answered, rather vaguely.
"There's always plenty to do wherever you are if you take the trouble to
look for it."

"Which most people don't," he replied, bringing the car to a standstill
before the front door.

"Is Barry back from London?"

"Coming this afternoon. Thanks for the lift, David, you've been a
Good Samaritan this afternoon. I don't think I could have walked.
Goodbye--and please forget," she whispered.

He smile reassuringly and waved his hand as he restarted the car.

Calling to Mouston, who was rolling happily on the cool grass, she went
slowly into the house. With the poodle rushing round her she mounted
thoughtfully the wide stairs and turned down the corridor leading to the
studio. It seemed of all rooms the one best suited to her mood. She
wanted to be alone, beyond the reach of any chance caller, beyond the
possibility of interruption, and it was understood by all that in the
studio she must not be disturbed.

In the passage she met her maid and, giving her her hat and gloves,
ordered tea to be sent to her.

Mouston trotted on ahead into the room with the confident air of a
proprietor, fussily inspecting the contents with the usual canine
interest as if suspicious that some familiar article of furniture had
been removed during his absence and anxious to reassure himself that all
things were as he had left them. Then he curled up with a satisfied
grunt on the chesterfield beside which he knew tea would be placed.
Gillian looked about her with a sigh. The room, much as she loved it,
had never been the same to her since that December afternoon that seemed
so much longer than a bare eighteen months ago. The peace it had given
formerly was gone. Now there was associated with it always the memory of
bitter pain. She had never been able to recapture the old feeling of
freedom and happiness it had inspired. It was her refuge still, where
she came to wrestle with herself in solitude, where she sought
forgetfulness in long hours of work but it was no longer the antechamber
to a castle of dreams. There were no dreams left, only a crushing
numbling reality. She thought of her husband, and the question that was
always in her mind seemed to-day more than ever insistent. Why had he
married her? The reason he had given had been disproved by his
subsequent attitude. He had asked her to take pity on a lonely man--and
he had given her no opportunity. She had tried by every means in her
power to get nearer to him, to be to him what she thought he meant her
to be and all her endeavour had come to nothing. Had she tried enough,
done enough? Miserably she wondered would another have succeeded where
she had failed? And had she failed because, after all, the reason he had
given was no true reason? And suddenly, for the first time, in a vivid
flash of illuminating comprehension she seemed to realise the true
reason and the quixotic generosity that had prompted it. It was as if a
veil had been rudely torn from before her eyes. It explained much,
letting in an entirely new light upon many things that had puzzled her.
It placed her in a new position, changing her whole mental standpoint.
How could she have been so stupidly blind, so dense--how could she have
misunderstood? He had lied to her, a kindly noble lie, but a lie
notwithstanding--he had married her out of pity, to provide for her in
the lack of faith he had in her power to provide for herself. To him,
then, her dreams of independence had been only a childish ambition that
he judged unsubstantial, and in his dilemma he had conceived it his duty
to do what seemed to her now a thing intolerable. A burning wave of
shame went through her. She was humiliated to the very dust, crushed
with the sense of obligation. She was only another burden thrust upon
him by a man who had had no claim to his liberality. Her father--the
superman of her childish dreams! How had he dared? If love for him had
not died years before it would have died at that moment in the fierce
resentment that burned in her. But to the man who had so willingly
accepted such an imposition her heart went out in greater love and
deeper gratitude than she had yet known.

Yet, how, with this new knowledge searing her soul, could she ever face
him again? She longed to creep away and hide like a stricken animal--and
he was coming home to-day. Within a few hours she would have to meet
him, conscious at last of the full extent of her indebtedness and
conscious also of the impossibility of communicating her discovery. For
she knew that she could never bring herself to refer to it, and she knew
him well enough to be aware that any such reference was out of the
question. The gulf between them was too wide. The two days she had spent
alone at the Towers had seemed interminable, but with a revulsion of
feeling she wished now that his coming could be delayed. She shrank from
even the thought of seeing him. Though she called herself coward she
determined to postpone the meeting she dreaded until dinner, when the
presence of Forbes and a couple of footmen would brace her to meet the
situation and give her time to prepare for the later more difficult
hours when she would be alone with him. For he made a practice, rigidly
adhered to, of sitting with her in the evenings during the short time
she remained downstairs. He was punctilious in that courtesy as in all
other acts of consideration. His own bed-hour was very much later and
she often wondered what he did, what were his thoughts, alone in the
solitary study that was his refuge as the studio was hers.

But she had come almost to fear the evening hours they spent together,
the feeling of constraint was becoming more and more an embarrassment.
The last two weeks in Scotland had been more difficult than any
preceding them. Craven's restlessness had been more apparent, more
pronounced. And looking back on it now she wondered whether it was
association with the men with whom he had travelled and shot in distant
countries that was stirring in him more acutely the wander-hunger that
was in his blood. During the after dinner reminiscences in the Scotch
shooting lodge he had himself been curiously silent, but he had sat
listening with a kind of fierce intentness that to her anxious watching
eyes had been like the forced calm of a caged animal enduring captivity
with seeming resignation but cherishing always thoughts of escape.

It was then that her vague dread leaped suddenly into concrete fear. An
incident that had occurred a few days after the big game hunters had
left them had further disquieted her. On going to him for advice on some
domestic difficulty she had found him poring over a large map. He had
rolled it up at her approach and his manner had made it impossible for
her to express an interest that would otherwise have seemed natural.
With the reticence to which she had schooled herself she had made no
comment, but the thought of that rolled up hidden canvas and its
possible significance remained with her. It might mean only a renewed
interest in the scenes of past exploits--fervently she hoped it did. But
it might also mean the projection of new activities....

The arrival of a footman bringing tea put a period to her thoughts.
While the man arranged the simple necessaries that were more suited to
the studio than the elaborate display Forbes considered indispensable
downstairs, she crossed the room to an easel where stood a half-finished
picture. She looked at it critically. Was he right--was there, after
all, nothing in her work but the mediocre endeavour of an amateur? She
had been so confident, so sure. And the master in Paris who had taught
her--he also had been confident and sure. Yet as she studied the
uncompleted sketch before her she felt her confidence waver. It had not
satisfied her while she was working on it, it seemed now hopelessly and
utterly bad. With a heavy sigh she stared at it despondently, seeing in
it the failure of all her hopes. Then in quick recoil courage came
again. One piece of bad work did not constitute failure--she would not
admit failure. She had worked on it at a time of extreme depression,
when all the world had seemed black and hopeless, and the deplorable
result was due to lack of concentration. She had allowed her own
disturbed thoughts to intrude too vividly, and her wandering attention,
her unhappiness, had reacted disastrously on her work. It must be so. Her
own judgment she might have doubted, but the word of her teacher--no. She
_had_ to succeed, she had to justify herself, to justify de Myres.
"_Travaillez, travaillez, et puis encore travaillez_," she murmured,
as she had heard him say a hundred times, and tore the sketch across
and across, tossing the pieces into a large wicker basket. With a little
shrug she turned to the tea table beside which Mouston was sitting up in
eager expectation, watching the dancing kettle lid with solemn brown
eyes. She made tea and then drew the dog close to her, hugging him with
almost passionate fervour. It was not a frequent event, but there were
times when her starved affections, craving outlet, were expended in
default of other medium upon the poodle who gave in return a devotion
that was entirely single-minded. Yoshio was still the only member of
the household who could touch him with impunity, and toward Craven his
attitude was a curious mixture of hatred and fear. To Mouston--her only
confidant--she whispered now the new projects she had formed during the
last two solitary days for a better understanding of the obscure mind
that had hitherto baffled her, for a further endeavour to break through
the barrier existing between them. To speak, if only to a dog, was relief
and she was too engrossed to notice the sound the poodle's quick ears
caught directly. With a growl he wrenched his head free of her arm and,
startled, she looked up expecting to see a servant.

She saw instead her husband. His unexpected appearance in a room he
habitually avoided robbed her, all unprepared to meet him as she was, of
the power of speech. White-lipped she stared at him, unable to formulate
even a conventional greeting, her heart beating rapidly as she watched
him cross the room. He, too, seemed to have no words, and she saw with
increased nervousness that his face was dark with obvious displeasure.
The silence that was fast becoming marked was broken by Mouston who with
another angry snarl leaped suddenly at Craven with jealous hostility, to
be caught up swiftly by a pair of powerful hands and flung into a far
corner, where he landed heavily with a shrill yelp of surprise and pain
that died away in a broken whimper as, cowed by the unlooked-for
retribution, he crawled under a big bureau that seemed to offer a safe
retreat.

"Barry!" Gillian's exclamation of incredulous amazement made Craven
sensible that the punishment he had inflicted must seem to her
unnecessarily severe. She could not be expected to see into his mind,
could not possibly know the feeling of loathing inspired by the sight of
the poodle in her arms. He was jealous--of a dog and in no mood to curb
the temper that his jealousy roused.

"I am sorry," he said shortly. "I didn't mind him going for me, it's
perhaps natural that he should--but I hate to see you kiss the dam'
brute," he added with a sudden violence in his voice that braced her as
a more temperate explanation would not have done. To be deliberately
cruel to an animal, no matter how great the provocation, was unlike
Craven; she felt convinced that Mouston was not the primary cause of
his irritability. Something must have occurred previously to disturb
him--the business, perhaps, for which he had waited in London, and,
seeking her, the scene he had surprised had grated on fretted nerves.
He had never before commented on her affection for the dog who was her
shadow; he had never even remonstrated with her, as Peters had many
times, for spoiling him. His present attitude seemed therefore the more
inexplicable--but she realised the impossibility of remonstrance. The
dog had behaved badly and had suffered for his indiscretion; she could
not defend him--had she wanted to. And she did not want to. At the
moment Mouston hardly seemed to matter--nothing mattered but the
unbearable fact of Craven's displeasure. If she could have known the
real cause of that displeasure it would have made speech easier. She
feared to aggravate his mood but she knew some answer was expected of
her. Silence might be misconstrued.

With calmness she did not feel she forced her voice to steadiness.

"Most women make fools of themselves over some animal, _faute de
mieux,"_ she said lightly. "I only follow the crowd."

"Is it _faute de mieux_ with you?" The sharp rejoinder struck her like a
physical blow. Unable to trust herself, unable to check the quivering of
her lips, she turned away to get another cup and saucer from a near
cabinet.

"Answer me, Gillian," he said tensely. "Is it for want of something
better that you give so much affection to that cringing beast"--he
pointed to the poodle who was crawling abjectly on his stomach toward
her from the bureau where he had taken refuge--"is it a child that your
arms are wanting--not a dog?" His face was drawn, and he stared at her
with fierce hunger smouldering in his eyes. He was hurting himself
beyond belief--was he hurting her too? Could anything that he might say
touch her, stir her from the calm placidity that sometimes, in
contradiction to his own restlessness, was almost more than he could
tolerate? She had fulfilled the terms of their bargain faithfully,
apparently satisfied with its limitation. She appeared content with this
damnable life they were living. But a sudden impulse had come to him to
assure himself that his supposition was a true one, that the outward
content she manifested did not cover longings and desires that she
sought to hide. Yet how would it benefit either of them for him to wring
from her a secret to which he, by his own doing, had no right? In
winning her consent to this divided marriage he had already done her
injury enough--he need not make her life harder. And just now, in a
moment of ungovernable passion, he had said a brutal thing, a thing
beyond all forgiveness. His face grew more drawn as he moved nearer to
her.

"Gillian, I asked you a question," he began unsteadily. She confronted
him swiftly. Her eyes were steady under his, though the pallor of her
face was ghastly.

"You are the one person who has no right to ask me that question,
Barry." There was no anger in her voice, there was not even reproach,
but a gentle dignity that almost unmanned him. He turned away with a
gesture of infinite regret.

"I beg your pardon," he said, in a strangled voice. "I was a cur--what I
said was damnable." He faced her again with sudden vehemence. "I wish to
God I had left you free. I had no right to marry you, to ruin your life
with my selfishness, to bar you from the love and children that should
have been yours. You might have met a man who would have given you both,
who would have given you the full happy life you ought to have. In my
cursed egoism I have done you almost the greatest injury a man can do a
woman. My God, I wonder you don't hate me!"

She forced back the words that rushed to her lips. She knew the danger
of an unconsidered answer, the danger of the whole situation. The
durability of their future life seemed to depend on her reply, its
continuance to hang on a slender thread that, perilously strained,
threatened momentarily to snap. She was fearful of precipitating the
crisis she had long realised was pending and which now seemed drawing to
a head. An unconsidered word, an intonation even, might bring about the
catastrophe she feared.

She sought for time, praying for inspiration to guide her. The waiting
tea table supplied her immediate want.

Mechanically she filled the cups and cut cake with deliberate precision
while her mind worked feverishly.

His distress weighed with her more than her own.

Positive as she now was of the true reason that had prompted him to
marry her she saw in his outburst only another chivalrous attempt to
hide that reason from her. He had purposely endeavoured to misrepresent
himself, and, understanding, a wave of passionate gratitude filled her.

Her love was clamouring for audible expression. If she could only speak!
If she could only break through the restrictions that hampered her, tell
him all that was in her heart, measure the force of her living love
against the phantom of that dead past that had killed in him all the joy
of life. But she could not speak. Pride kept her silent, and the
knowledge that she could not add to the burden he already bore the
embarrassment of an unsought love.

But something she must say, and that before he noticed the hesitation
that might rob her words of any worth. Only by refusing to attach an
undue value to the significance of what he had said could she arrest the
dangerous trend of the conversation and bring it to a safer level.

She sat down slowly, re-arranging the simple tray with ostentatious
care.

"You didn't force me to marry you, Barry," she said quietly. "I knew
what I was doing, I realised the difficulties that might arise. But you
have nothing to reproach yourself with. You have been kind and
considerate in everything. I am enormously grateful to you--and I am
very content with my life. Please believe that. There is only one thing
that I could wish changed; you said that we were to be friends--and you
have let me be only a fair weather friend. Won't you let me sometimes
share and help in the difficulties, as well as in the pleasures? Your
interests, your obligations are so great--" she went on hurriedly, lest
he should think she was aiming at deeper, more personal concerns--"I
can't help knowing that there must be difficulties. If you would only
let me take my part--" She looked up, meeting his gloomy stare at last,
and a faint appeal crept into her eyes. "I'm not a child, Barry, to be
shown only the sunny side of life."

An indescribable expression flitted across his face, changing it
marvellously.

"I would never have you know the dark side," he said briefly, as he took
the cup she held out to him.

She was conscious that the tension, though lessened had not altogether
disappeared. There was in his manner a constraint that set her heart
throbbing painfully. She glanced furtively from time to time at his
stern worn face, and the weariness in his eyes brought a lump into her
throat.

He talked spasmodically, of friends whom he had seen in London, of a
hundred and one trivial matters, but of the business that had kept him
in town he said nothing and she wondered what had been in his mind when
he had departed from an established rule and deliberately sought her in
a room that he never entered. Had he come with any express intention,
any confidence that had been thwarted by Mouston's stupid behaviour? She
stifled a sigh of disappointment. He might never again be moved by the
same impulse.

With growing anxiety she noticed that his restlessness was greater even
than usual. Refusing a second cup of tea he lit a cigarette, pacing up
and down as he talked, his hands plunged deep in his pockets.

In one of the silences that punctuated his jerky periods he paused by a
little table on which lay a portfolio, and lifting it idly looked at the
sketches it contained. With a sudden look of apprehension Gillian started
and made a half movement as if to rise, then with a shrug she sank back
on the sofa, watching him intently. It was her private sketch book, and
there was in it one portrait in particular, his own, that she had no
wish for him to see. But remonstrance would only call attention to what
she hoped might pass unnoticed. Craven turned over the sketches slowly.
He had seen little of his wife's work since their marriage, she was
shy of submitting it to him, and with the policy of non-interference
he had adopted he had expressed no curiosity. He recognised many faces,
and, recognising, remembered wherein lay her special skill. He found
himself looking for characteristics that were known to him in the
portraits of the men and women he was studying. There was no attempt at
concealment--vices and virtues, liberality of mind, pettiness of soul
were set forth in naked truth. A sympathetic picture of Peters arrested
him, though the name written beneath it puzzled. He looked at the kindly
generous countenance with its friendly half-sad eyes and tender mouth
with a feeling of envy. He would have given years of his life to have
possessed the peace of mind that was manifested in the calm serenity of
his agent's face.

His lips tightened as he laid the sketch down. With his thoughts
lingering on the last portrait for a second or two he looked at the next
one absently. Then a stifled exclamation broke from him and he peered at
it closer. And, watching, Gillian drew a deep breath, clenching her
hands convulsively. He stood quite still for what seemed an eternity,
then came slowly across the room and stood directly in front of her. And
for the first time she was afraid of meeting his eyes.

"Do I look like--that?"

Her head drooped lower, her fingers twining and intertwining nervously,
and her dry lips almost refused their office.

"I have seen you like that," very slowly and almost inaudibly, but he
caught the reluctant admission.

"So--_damnable_?"

She flinched from the loathing in his voice.

"I _am_ sorry--" she murmured faintly.

"Good God!" the profanity was wrung from him, but had he thought of it
he would have considered it justified, for the face at which he was
staring was the beautiful tormented face of a fallen angel. He looked
with a kind of horror at the hungry passionate eyes fierce with
unsatisfied longing, shadowed with terrible memory, tortured, hopeless;
at the set mouth, a straight grim line under the trim golden brown
moustache; at the bitterness and revolt expressed in all the deep cut
lines of the tragic face. He laid it down with a feeling of repulsion.
She saw him like that! The pain of it was intolerable.

He laughed with a harsh mirthlessness that made her quiver.

"It is a truer estimation of my character than the one you gave me a few
minutes ago," he said bitterly, "and you may thank heaven I am your
husband only in name. God keep you from a nearer acquaintance with me."
And turning on his heel he left her. Long after he had gone she sat on
motionless, her fingers picking mechanically at the chintz cover of the
sofa, staring into space with wide eyes brimming with tears. She knew it
was a cruel sketch, but she had never meant him to see it. It had taken
shape unconsciously under her hand, and while she hated it she had kept
it because of the remarkable likeness and because it was the only
picture she had of him.

The dreams of a better understanding seemed swept away by her own
thoughtlessness and folly. She had hurt him and she could never explain.
To refer to it, to try and make him understand, would do more harm than
good. With a pitiful sob she covered her face with her hands, and,
beside her, Mouston the pampered cringed and whimpered unheeded and
forgotten.

She had looked forward to his return with such high hopes and now they
lay shattered at her feet. During a brief hour that might have drawn
them nearer together they had contrived to hurt each other as it must
seem to both by deliberate intent. For herself she knew that she was
innocent of any such intention--but was he? He had never hurt her
before, even in his most difficult moods he had been to her unfailingly
kind and considerate. But to-day--shudderingly she wondered did it mark
a new era in their relations? And in miserable futile longing she wished
that this afternoon had never been.

After what had occurred the thought of facing him across a table during
an interminable dinner and sitting with him alone for the long hours of
a summer evening drove her to a state bordering on panic. She pushed the
thick hair off her forhead with a little gasp. It was cowardly--but she
could not, would not. Despising herself she crossed the room to the
telephone.

At the Hermitage Peters was indulging in a well-earned rest after a long
hot day that had been both irksome and tiring. Wearing an old tweed coat
he lounged comfortably in a big chair, a couple of sleepy setters at his
feet, a foul and ancient pipe in full blast. The room, flooded with the
evening sun, was filled with a heterogeneous collection of books and
music manuscript, guns, fishing rods and whips. The homely room had
stamped on it the characteristics of its owner. It was a room to work
in, and equally a room in which to relax. The owner was now relaxing,
but the bodily rest he enjoyed did not extend to his mind, which was
very actively disturbed. His usually genial face was furrowed and he
sucked at the old pipe with an energy that enveloped him in a haze of
blue smoke. The ringing of the telephone in the opposite corner of the
room came as an unwelcome interruption. He glared at it resentfully,
disinclined to move, but at the second ring rose reluctantly with a
grunt of annoyance, pushing the drowsy setters to one side. He took down
the receiver with no undue haste and answered the call gruffly, but his
bored expression changed rapidly as he listened. The soft voice came
clearly but hesitatingly:

"Is that you, David? Could you come up to dinner--if--if you're not
going anywhere else--I've got a tiresome headache and it will be so
stupid for Barry. I don't want him to be dull the first evening at home.
So if you could--please, David--"

His face grew grim as he detected the quiver in the faltering indecisive
words, but he answered briskly.

"Of course I'll come. I'd love to," he said, with a cheeriness he was
far from feeling. He hung up the receiver with a heavy sigh. But he had
hardly moved when the telephone rang again sharply.

"Damn the thing!" he muttered irritably.

This time a very different voice, curt and uncompromising:

"--that you, Peter?--Yes!--Doing anything tonight?--Not?--Then for God's
sake come up to dinner." And then the receiver jammed down savagely.

With grimmer face Peters moved thoughtfully across the room and touched
a bell in the wall by the fireplace. His call was answered with the
usual promptness, and when he had given the necessary orders and the man
had gone he laid aside his pipe, tidied a few papers, and went slowly to
an adjoining room.

The Hermitage was properly the dower house of the Towers, but for the
last two generations had not been required as such. The room Peters now
entered had originally been the drawing room, but for the thirty years
he had lived in the house he had kept it as a music room. Panelled in
oak, with polished floor and innocent of hangings, the only furniture a
grand piano and a portrait, it was at once a sanctuary and a shrine. And
during those thirty years to only two people had he given the right of
entrance. To the woman whose portrait hung on the wall and, latterly, to
the girl who had succeeded her as mistress of Craven Towers. To this
room, to the portrait and the piano, he brought all his difficulties; it
was here he wrestled with the loneliness and sadness that the world had
never suspected. To-night he felt that only the peace that room
invariably brought would enable him to fulfil the task he had in hand.

       *       *       *       *

Craven was alone in the hall when he arrived, and it was not until the
gong sounded that Gillian made a tardy appearance, very pale but with a
feverish spot on either cheek. Peters' quick eye noticed the absence of
the black shadow that was always at her heels. "Where is the faithful
Mouston? Not in disgrace, surely--the paragon?" he teased, and was
disconcerted at the painful flush that overspread her face. But she
thrust her arm through his and forced a little laugh. "Mouston is
becoming rather incorrigible, I'm afraid I've spoiled him hopelessly.
I'll tell him you inquired, it will cheer him up, poor darling. He's
doing penance with a bone upstairs. Shall we go in--I'm famished."

But as dinner progressed she did not appear to be famished, for she ate
scarcely anything, but talked fitfully with jerky nervousness. Craven,
too, was at first almost entirely silent, and on Peters fell the main
burden of conversation, until by a direct question he managed to start
his host on a topic that was of interest to both and lasted until
Gillian left them.

In the drawing room, after she had finished her coffee, she opened the
piano and then subsided wearily on to the big sofa. The emotions of the
day and the effort of appearing at dinner had exhausted her, and in her
despondency the future had never seemed so black, so beset with
difficulties. While she was immeasurably thankful for Peters' presence
to-night she knew it was impossible for him to act continually as a
buffer between them. But from the problem of to-morrow, and innumerable
to-morrows, she turned with a fixed determination to live for the
moment. _A chaque jour suffit sa peine_.

She lay with relaxed muscles and closed eyes. It seemed a long
while before the men joined her. She wondered what they were talking
about--whether to Peters would be imparted the information that had
been withheld from her. For the feeling of a nearly impending calamity
was strong within her. When at last they came she looked with covert
anxiety from one to the other, but their faces told her nothing. For a
few minutes Peters lingered beside her chatting and then gravitated
toward the piano, as she had hoped he would. Arranging the heaped up
cushions more comfortably around her she gave herself up to the delight
of his music and it seemed to her that she had never heard him play so
well.

Near her Craven was standing before the fern-filled fireplace, leaning
against the mantel, a cigarette drooping between his lips. From where
she lay she could watch him unperceived, for his own gaze was directed
through the open French window out on to the terrace, and she studied
his set handsome face with sorrowful attention. He appeared to be
thinking deeply, and, from his detached manner, heedless of the harmony
of sound that filled the room. But her supposition was soon rudely
shaken. Peters had paused in his playing. When a few moments later the
plaintive melody of an operatic air stole through the room she saw her
husband start violently, and the terrible pallor she had witnessed once
before sweep across his face. She clenched her teeth on her lip to keep
back the cry that rose, and breathlessly watched him stride across the
room and drop an arresting hand on Peters' shoulder. "For God's sake
don't play that damned thing!" she heard him say in a voice that was
almost unrecognisable. And then he passed out swiftly, into the garden.

A spasm of jealous agony shook her from head to foot. With quick
intuition she guessed that the air that was unknown to her must be
connected in some way with the sorrow that darkened his life, and the
spectre of the past she tried to forget seemed to rise and grin at her
triumphantly. She shivered. Would its power last until life ended? Would
it stand between them always, rivalling her, thwarting her every effort?

For a long time she dared not look at Peters, who had responded without
hesitation to Craven's unceremonious request, but when at length she
summoned courage to glance at him it seemed as if he had already
forgotten the interruption. His face wore the absent, almost spiritual
look that was usual when he was at the piano and his playing gave no
indication of either annoyance or surprise. She breathed a quick sigh of
relief and, slightly altering her position, lay where she could see the
solitary figure on the terrace. Erect by the stone ballustrade, his arms
folded across his chest, staring intently into the night as if his gaze
went far beyond the confines of the great park, he seemed to her a
symbol of incarnate loneliness, and her heart contracted at the thought
of the suffering and solitude she might not share. If he would only turn
to her! If she had only the right to go to him and plead her love, beg
the confidence she craved, and stand beside him in his sorrow! But he
stood alone, beyond her reach, even unaware of her longing.

The slow tears gathered thick in her eyes.

For long after the keyboard became an indistinguishable blur Peters
played on untiringly. But at last he rose, closed the piano and turned
on an electric lamp that stood near.

"Eleven o'clock," he exclaimed contritely. "Bless my soul, why didn't
you stop me! I forget the time when I'm playing. I've tired you out. Go
to bed, you pale child. I'm walking home, I'll see Barry on the terrace
as I pass."

She slid from the sofa and took his outstretched hands.

"Your playing never tires me!" she answered, with a little upward
glance. "You've magic at the ends of your fingers, David dear."

She went to the open window to watch him go, and presently saw him
reappear round the angle of the house and join Craven on the terrace.
They stood talking for a few minutes and then together descended the
long flight of stone steps to the rose garden, from which, by a short
cut through a little copse, could be reached the path that crossing the
park led to the Hermitage. It was the habit of Peters when he had been
dining at the big house to walk home thus and, as to-night, Craven
almost always accompanied him.

Gillian had long known her husband's propensity for night rambling and
she knew it might be hours before he returned. Was he angry with her
still that he had omitted the punctilious good-night he had never before
forgotten? Her lips quivered like a disappointed child's as she turned
back slowly into the room. But as she passed through the hall and
climbed the long stairs she knew in her heart that she had misjudged
him. He was not capable of petty retaliation. He had only forgotten--why
indeed should he remember? It was a small matter to him, he could not
know what it meant to her. In her bedroom she dismissed her maid and
went to an open window. She was very tired, but restless, and
disinclined for bed. Dropping down on the low seat she stared out over
the moonlit landscape. The repentant Mouston, abject at her continued
neglect, crawled from his basket and crept tentatively to her, and as
absently her hand went out to him gained courage and climbed up beside
her. Inch by inch he sidled nearer, and unrepulsed grew bolder until he
finally subsided with his head across her knees, whining his
satisfaction. Mechanically she caressed him until his shivering starting
body lay quiet under her soothing touch. The night was close and very
silent. No breath of wind came to stir the heavily leafed trees, no
sound broke the stillness. She listened vainly for the cry of an owl,
for the sharp alarm note of a pheasant to pierce the brooding hush that
seemed to have fallen even over nature. A coppery moon hung like a ball
of fire in the sky. At the far end of the terrace a group of tall trees
cast inky black shadows across the short smooth lawn and the white
tracery of the stone balustrade. The faint scent of jasmine drifted in
through the open window and she leaned forward eagerly to catch the
sweet intermittent perfume that brought back memories of the peaceful
courtyard of the convent school. A night of intense beauty, mysterious,
disturbing, called her compellingly. The restlessness that had assailed
her grew suddenly intolerable, and she glanced back into the spacious
room with a feeling of suffocation.

The four walls seemed closing in about her. She knew that the big white
bed would bring no rest, that she would toss in feverish misery until
the morning, and she turned with dread from the thought of the long
weary hours. Night after night she lay awake in loneliness and longing
until exhaustion brought fitful sleep that, dream-haunted, gave no
refreshment.

Sleep was impossible--the room that witnessed her nightly vigil a prison
house of dark sad thoughts. Her head throbbed with the heat; she craved
the space, the freshness of the moonlit garden.

Rousing the slumbering dog she went out on to the gallery and down the
staircase she had climbed so wearily an hour before. By the solitary
light still burning in the hall she knew that Craven had not yet
returned. Through the darkness of the drawing room she groped her way
until her outstretched hands touched shutters. Slipping the bar softly
and unlatching the window she passed out. For a moment she stood still,
breathing deeply, drinking in the beauty of the scene, exhilarated with
the sudden feeling of freedom that came to her. The silent garden,
beautiful always but more beautiful still in the mystery of the night,
appealed to her as never before. It was the same, yet wonderfully,
curiously unlike. A glamour hung over it, a certain settled peace that
soothed the tumult of her mind and calmed her nerves. Surrendering to
the charm of its almost unearthly loveliness she slowly paced the long
length of the terrace, the wondering Mouston pressing close beside her.

Then when her tired limbs could go no further she halted by the steps
and leant her arms on the coping of the balustrade. Cupping her chin in
her hands she looked down at the rose garden beneath her and smiled at
its quaint formality. Running parallel with the terrace on the one side
the three remaining sides were enclosed by a high yew hedge through
which a door, facing the terrace steps, led to a path that gave access
to the copse that was Peters' short cut. The shadow of the high dense
yew stretched far across the garden and she gazed dreamily into its
dusky depths, conjuring up the past, peopling the solitude about her
with forgotten ghosts who in the silks and satins of a bygone age had
walked those same flagged paths and talked and laughed and wept among
the roses. Poor lonely ghosts--were they lonelier than she?

The silence broke at last. Far off from the trees in the park an owl
called softly to its mate and the swift answering note seemed to mock
her desolation. Her whole being shuddered into one great soundless cry
of utter longing: "Barry! Oh, Barry, Barry!"

And as if in answer to her prayer she heard a sound that sent the quick
blood leaping to her heart.

In the deep shadow of the yew hedge the door that had opened shut with a
sudden clang. Her hands crept to her breast as she strained her eyes
into the darkness. Then the echo of a firm tread, and Craven's tall
figure emerged from the surrounding gloom. With fluttering breath she
watched him slowly cross the bright strip of moonlight lying athwart the
rose garden and mount the steps. Only when he reached the terrace did he
seem aware of her presence, and joined her with an exclamation of
surprise, "You--Gillian?"

"I couldn't sleep--it was so hot--the garden tempted me," she faltered,
in sudden fear lest he might think she spied on him. But the fascination
of the night was to Craven too natural to evoke comment. He lit a
cigarette and smoked in a silence she did not know how to break, and a
cold wave of chill foreboding passed over her as she waited with nervous
constraint for him to speak. He turned to her at last with a certain
deliberation and spoke with blunt directness.

"I have been asked to lead an expedition in Central Africa. It is partly
a hunting trip, partly a scientific mission. They have approached me
because I know the country, and because I am interested in tropical
diseases and am willing to defray a proportion of the expense which will
be necessarily heavy--I should gladly have done so in any case whether I
went with the party or not. The question of leading the expedition I
deferred as long as I could for obvious reasons.--I had not only myself
to consider. But I have been pressed to give a definite answer and have
agreed to go. There are plenty of other men who would do the job better
than myself but, as I said, I happen to know the locality and speak
several of the dialects, so my going may make things easier for them.
But that is not what has weighed with me most, it is you. Do you think I
don't know how completely I have failed you--how difficult your life is?
I do know. And because I know I am going. For I see no other way of
making your life even bearable for you. It has become impossible for us
to go on as we are--and the fault is mine, only mine. You have been an
angel of goodness and patience, you have done all that was humanly
possible for any woman to do, but circumstances were against us. I had
no right to ask you to make such a marriage. I cannot undo it. I cannot
give you your freedom, but I can by my absence make your life easier
than it has been. I have arranged everything with the lawyers in London
and with Peters, here to-night. If I do not return, for there are of
course risks, everything is left in your control--it is the only
satisfaction in my power. If I do return--God give me grace to be kinder
to you than I have been in the past."

The blow she had been waiting for had fallen at last, in fulfilment of
her premonition. In her heart she had always known it would come, but
its suddenness paralysed. She had nothing to say. Silently she stood
beside him, her hands tight-locked, numbed with a desperate fear. He
would go--and he would never return. It hammered in her brain, making
her want to shriek. She felt to the full her own powerlessness, nothing
she could say would turn him from his purpose. It was the end she had
always foreseen, the end of all her dreams, the end of everything but
sorrow and pain and loneliness unspeakable. And for him--danger and
possibly death. He had admitted risk, he had set his house in order.
From Craven it meant much. She had learned his complete disregard for
danger from the men who had stayed with them in Scotland; his
recklessness in the hunting field, which was a by-word in the county,
was already known to her. He set no value on his own life--what reason
was there to suppose that, in the mysterious land of sudden and terrible
death, he would take even ordinary precautions? Was he going with a
pre-conceived determination to end a life that had become unbearable?
In agony that seemed to rive her heart she closed her eyes lest he might
see in them the anguish she knew was there. How long a time was left to
her before the parting that would leave her desolate? "When do you go?"
The question burst from her, and Craven glanced at her keenly, trying to
read the colourless face that was like a still white mask. He fancied he
had caught a tremor in her voice, then he called himself a fool as he
noted the composure that seemed to argue indifference. Her calmness
stung while it strengthened him. Why should she care, he asked himself
bitterly. His going could mean to her only relief. And disappointment
made his own voice ring cold and distant. "Within the next few weeks.
The exact date is not yet fixed," he said evasively. Again she was
silent while he wondered what were her thoughts. Suddenly she turned to
him, words pouring out in stammering haste, "While you are away--may I
go to France--to Paris--to work? This life of idleness is killing me!"

He looked at her in amazement, startled at her passionate utterance,
dismayed at a suggestion he had never contemplated. To think of her at
the Towers, in the position he would have her fill, watched over by
Peters, was the only comfort he could take away with him. For a second
he meditated a refusal that seemed within his right, arbitrary though it
might be. But the promise he had made to leave her free stayed him. He
could not break that promise now. "As you please," he said, with forced
unconcern, "you are your own mistress. You can do whatever you wish."
And with a slight shrug he turned toward the house. She walked beside
him in a tumult of emotion. He would now never know the love she bore
him, the aching passion that throbbed like a living thing within her.
She could not speak, the gulf between them was too wide to bridge, and
he would leave her, thinking her indifferent, callous! Tears blinded her
as she stumbled through the dark drawing room. In the dimly lit hall,
standing at the foot of the staircase with his hand clenched on the oaken
rail, Craven watched with tortured eyes the slender drooping figure move
slowly upward, battling with himself, praying for strength to let her
go--for he knew that if she even turned her head his self-control would
shatter. It was weakening now and the sweat broke out in heavy drops on
his forehead as he strove to crush an insidious inward voice that bade
him forget the past and take what was his. "Only one life," it seemed to
shout in mocking derision, "live while you can, take what you can! What
is done, is done; only the present matters. Of what use is regret, of
what use an abstinence that mortifies yet feeds desire? Fool, fool to
set aside the chance of happiness!"

With a deep breath that was almost a groan he sprang forward. Then, in
deadly fear, he checked himself, and wrenching his eyes away from the
woman he craved fled out into the night.




CHAPTER VIII


In a little tent pitched in the midst of an Arab camp in the extreme
south of Southern Algeria Craven sat writing. A day of intense heat had
been succeeded by a night airless and suffocating, and he was wet with
perspiration that dripped from his forehead and formed in sticky pools
under his hand, making writing laborious and difficult, impossible
indeed except for the sheet of blotting paper on which his fingers
rested. His thin silk shirt, widely open at the throat, the sleeves
rolled up above his elbows, clung limply to his broad shoulders. A
multitude of tiny flies attracted by the light circled round the lamp
eddying in the heat of the flame, immolating themselves, and falling
thickly on the closely written sheets of paper that strewed the camp
table, smeared the still wet ink and clogged his pen. He swept them
away impatiently from time to time. Squatting on his heels in a corner,
his inscrutable yellow face damp and glistening, Yoshio was cleaning a
revolver with his usual thoroughness and precision. A ragged square of
canvas beside him held the implements necessary to his work, set out in
methodical order, and as he cleaned, and oiled and polished assiduously
without raising his eyes his deft fingers selected unerringly the tool
he required. The weapon appeared already speckless, but for some time
he continued to rub vigorously, handling it with almost affectionate
care as if loth to put it down; at last with a grunt of demur he
reluctantly laid aside the cloth he was using and wrapping the revolver
in a silk handkerchief slid it slowly into a leathern holster which his
care had kept soft and pliable. Placing it noiselessly on the ground
before him he turned his oblique gaze on Craven and watched him for a
moment or two intently. Assured at length that his master was too
absorbed in his own task to notice the doings of his servant he reached
his hand behind him and produced a second revolver, which he began to
clean more hurriedly, more superficially than the first, keeping the
while a wary eye on the stooping figure at the table. When that too was
finished to his satisfaction and restored to his hip pocket, a flicker
of almost childlike amusement crossed his usually immobile features and
he started operations with an air of fine unconsciousness upon one of a
couple of rifles that stood propped against the tent wall near him. Two
years of hardships and danger had left no mark upon him, the deadly
climate of the region through which he had passed had not impaired his
powerful physique, and disease that had ravaged the scientific mission
had left him, like Craven, unscathed. With no care beyond his master's
comfort, indifferent to fatigue and perils, the months spent in Central
Africa had been far more to his taste than the dull monotony of the
life at Craven Towers. But with his face turned, though indirectly,
toward home--the home of his adoption--Yoshio was still cheerful. For
him life held only one incentive--the man who had years before saved
his life in California. Where Craven was Yoshio was content.

Outside, the Arab camp was in an uproar. Groups of tribesmen passed the
tent continually, conversing eagerly, their raucous voices rising
shrill, shouting, arguing, in noisy excitement. The neighing of horses
came from near by and once a screaming stallion backed heavily against
the canvas wall where Yoshio was sitting, rousing the phlegmatic
Japanese to an unwonted ejaculation of wrath as he ducked and grabbed
into safety the remaining rifle before the animal was hauled clear with
a wealth of detailed Arabic expletives, and he grinned broadly when an
authoritative voice broke into the Arabs' clamour and a subsequent
sudden silence fell in the vicinity of the stranger's tent.

Regardless of the disturbance resounding from all quarters of the camp
Craven wrote on steadily for some time longer. Then with a short sigh
he shuffled the scattered sheets together, brushed clear the clinging
accumulation of scorched wings and tiny shrivelled bodies, and without
re-reading the closely written pages stuffed them into an envelope, and
having closed and directed it, leaned back with an exclamation of
relief.

The letter to Peters was finished but there remained still the more
difficult letter he had yet to address to his wife--a letter he dreaded
and yet longed to write. A letter which, reaching her after the death
he confidently expected and earnestly prayed for, would reveal to her
fully the secret of his past and the passion that had driven him,
unworthy, from her. For never during the two years of adventure and
peril had death seemed more imminent than now, and before he died he
would give himself this one satisfaction--he would break the silence of
years that had eaten like a canker into his soul. At last she would
know all he had never dared to tell her, all his hopeless love, all his
remorse and shame, all his passionate desire for her happiness.

Scores of times during the last two years he had attempted to write
such a letter and had as often refrained, but to-night his need was
imperative. It was his last chance. In the early hours of the dawn he
would ride with his Arab hosts on a punitive expedition from which he
had no intention of returning alive. Death that he had courted openly
since leaving England would surely be easy to find amid the warring
tribes with whom he had thrown in his lot. A curious smile lit his face
for an instant, then passed abruptly at the doubt that shook his
confidence. Would fate again refuse him release from a life that had
become more than ever intolerable?

Haunted as he was with the memory of O Hara San, tortured with longing
for the woman he had made his wife, the double burden had become too
heavy to bear. He had grasped at the opportunity offered by the
scientific mission. The dangerous nature of the country, the fever that
saturated its swamps and forests, was known to him and he had gone to
Africa courting a death that would free him and yet leave no stain on
the name borne by his wife. And the death that would free him would
free her too! The bitter justice of it made him set his teeth. For he
had left her his fortune and his great possessions unrestrictedly to
deal with as she would. Young, rich and free! Who would claim what he
had surrendered? Even now, after months of mental struggle, the thought
was torment.

But death that had laid a heavy toll on his companions had turned away
from him. Disease and disaster had dogged the mission from the outset.
The medical and scientific researches had proved satisfactory beyond
expectation, but the attendant loss of life had been terrible, and
himself utterly reckless and heedless of all precautions Craven had
watched tragedy after tragedy with envy he had been hardly able to
hide. Immune from the sudden and deadly fevers that had swept the camps
periodically with fatal results he had worked fearlessly and untiringly
among the stricken members of the mission and the fast dwindling army
of demoralised porters who had succumbed with alarming rapidity. With
the stolid Japanese always beside him he had wrestled entire nights and
days to save the expedition from extermination. And in the intervals of
nursing, and shepherding the unwilling carriers, he had ranged far and
wide in search of fresh food to supply the wants of the camp. The
danger he deliberately sought, with a rashness that had provoked open
comment, had miraculously evaded him. He had borne a charmed life. He
had snatched at every hazardous enterprise, he had exposed himself
consistently to risk until one evening shortly before the expedition
was due to start on the return march to civilization, when a chance
word spoken by the camp fire had brought home to him abruptly the
dependence of the remnant of the mission on him to bring them to the
coast in safety. By some strange dealing of fate it had been among the
non-scientific members of the expedition that mortality had ranged
highest; the big game hunters, though hardier and physically better
equipped than the students of the party for hardship and endurance had,
with the exception of Craven himself, been wiped out to a man. It had
been an unpremeditated remark uttered in all good faith with no
ulterior motive by a shuddering fever-stricken scientist writing up his
notes and diary by the light of the fire with trembling fingers that
could scarcely hold the fountain pen that moved laboriously driven by
an indomitable will. A grim jest, horrible in its significance, had
followed the startling utterance and Craven had looked with perplexity
at the shivering figure with its drawn yellow face from which a pair of
glittering eyes burned with an almost uncanny brilliance until the
meaning of the man's words slowly penetrated. But the true importance
of the suggestion once realised had aroused in him a full understanding
of the duty he owed to the men he had undertaken to lead. Of those who
could have convoyed the expedition on its homeward march only he
remained. Without him the survivors of the once large party might
eventually reach safety but it was made clear to him that night how
completely his companions relied on him for a quick return and for the
management of the train of porters whose frequent mutinies only Craven
seemed able to quell. He had sat far into the night, staring gloomily
into the blazing fire, smoking pipe after pipe, listening to the
multifarious noises of the forest--the sudden distant crash of falling
trees, the incessant hum of insect life, the long-drawn howl of beasts
of prey hovering on the outskirts of the camp, the soft whoo-whoo of an
owl whose cry brought vividly to his mind the cool fragrance of the
garden at Craven Towers and the nearer more ominous sounds of muffled
agony that came from a tent close beside him where yet another victim
of science was gasping his life away.

Hour after hour he sat thinking. There was no getting away from it--it
was only despicable that he had not himself recognised it earlier. The
narrow path of duty lay before him from which he might not turn aside
to ease the burden of a private grief. He was bound to the men who
trusted him. Honour demanded that he should forego the project he had
formed--until his obligation had been discharged. Loyalty to his
companions must come before every selfish consideration. After all it
was only a postponement, he reflected with a kind of grim satisfaction.
The residue of the mission once safely conducted to the coast his
responsibility would end and he would be free to pursue the course that
would liberate the woman he loved.

In the chill silence of the hour that precedes the dawn he had risen
cramped and shivering from his seat by the dying fire and too late then
to take the rest he had neglected, had roused Yoshio and started on the
usual foraging expedition that was his daily occupation. And from that
time he had been careful of a life which, though valueless to him, was
invaluable to his companions. From that time, too, the ill-luck that
had pursued them ceased. There had been no more deaths, no more
desertions from the already depleted train of carriers. The work had
gone forward with continuing success and, six months ago, after a
hazardous march through a hostile country, Craven had led the remnant
of the expedition safely to the coast. He had waited for some weeks at
the African port after the mission had returned to England, and then
embarking on a small trading steamer, had made his way northward to an
obscure station on the Moroccan seaboard, when by a leisurely and
indirect route he had slowly crossed the desert to the district where
he now was and which he had reached only a week ago. Twice before he
had visited the tribe as the guest of the Sheik Mukair Ibn Zarrarah's
younger son, an officer of Spahis whom he had met in Paris, and the
warm hospitality shown him had left a deep impression. A sudden
unaccountable impulse had led him to revisit a locality where he had
spent some of the happiest months of his life. He had conceived an
intense admiration and liking for the stern old Arab Chief and his two
utterly dissimilar sons; the elder a grave habitually silent man, who
clung to the old traditions with the rigid tenacity of the orthodox
Mohammedan, disdainful of the French jurisdiction under which he was
compelled to live, and occupied solely with the affairs of the tribe
and his beautiful and adored wife who reigned alone in his harem,
despite the fact that she had given him no child; the younger in total
contrast to his brother, a dashing ultra-modern young Arab as deeply
imbued with French tendencies as the conservative Omar was opposed to
them. The wealthy and powerful old Sheik, whose friendship had been
assiduously sought by the French Administration to ensure the
co-operation of a tribe that with its far reaching influence might have
proved a dangerous element in an unsettled district, shared in his
inmost heart the sentiments of his heir, but with a larger and more
discriminating wisdom saw the desirability of associating at least one
of his family with the Government he was obliged, though grudgingly and
half contemptuously, to acknowledge. He had hovered long between
prejudice and policy before he reluctantly gave his consent for Sad to
be placed on the roll of the regiment of Spahis. And the unusual love
existing between the two brothers had survived a test that might have
proved too strong for its continuance; Omar, bowing to the decision of
the autocratic old Chief, had refrained even from comment, and Sad,
despite his enthusiasm, had carefully avoided inflaming his brother's
deeply rooted hatred of the nation the younger man was proud to serve.
His easy-going nature adapted itself readily to the two wholly separate
lives he lived, and though secretly preferring the months spent with
his regiment he contrived to extract every possible enjoyment from the
periods of leave for which he returned to the tribe where, laying aside
the picturesque uniform his ardent soul rejoiced in and scrupulously
suppressing every indication of his Francophile inclinations he resumed
with consummate tact the somewhat invidious position of younger son of
the house.

The meeting of the young Spahi with Craven in Paris had led to the
discovery of similar tastes and ultimately to an intimate friendship.
Together in Algeria they had shot panther and Barbary sheep and
eventually Craven had been induced to visit the tribe, where he had
seen the true life of the desert that appealed strongly to his
unconventional wandering disposition. The heartiness of his reception
had been unqualified, even the taciturn Omar had unbent to the
representative of a nation he felt he could respect with no loss of
prestige. To Craven the weeks passed in the Arab camp had been a time
of uninterrupted enjoyment and a second visit had strengthened mutual
esteem. Situated on the extreme fringe of the Algerian frontier, in the
heart of a perpetually disturbed country, the element of danger
prevailing in the district was to Craven not the least of its
attractions. It had been a source of keen disappointment that during
both his visits there had been a cessation of the intertribal warfare
that was carried on in spite of the Government's endeavours to preserve
peace among the great desert families. For generations the tribe of
Mukair Ibn Zarrarah had been at feud with another powerful tribe which,
living further to the south and virtually beyond the suzerainty of the
nominal rulers of the country, harried the border continually. But,
aware of the growing power and resources of Mukair Ibn Zarrarah, for
many years the marauders had avoided collision with him and confined
their attention to less dangerous adversaries. The apparent neglect of
his hereditary enemies had not, however, lessened the old Sheik's
precautions. With characteristic oriental distrust he maintained a
continual watch upon them and a well organized system of espionage kept
him conversant with all their movements. Often during his visits Craven
had listened to the stories of past encounters and in the fierce eager
faces around him he had read the deep longing for renewed hostilities
that animated the younger members of the tribe in particular and had
wondered what spark would eventually set ablaze the smouldering fires
of hatred and rivalry that had so long lain dormant. And it had been
really a subconscious presage of such an outbreak that had brought him
back to the camp of Mukair Ibn Zarrarah. His presentiment, the outcome
of earnest desire, had been fulfilled, and in its fulfilment attended
with horrible details which, had it not been already his intention,
would have driven him to beg a place in the ranks of the punitive force
that was preparing to avenge an outrage that involved the honour of the
tribe. A week ago he had arrived to find the camp seething with an
infuriated and passion-swayed people who bore no kind of resemblance to
the orderly well-disciplined tribesmen he had seen on his former
visits, and the daily arrival of reinforcements from outlying districts
had kept the tension strained and swelled the excitement that rioted
day and night.

In the barbaric sumptuousness of his big tent and with a calm dignity
that even tragedy could not shake the old Sheik had received him alone,
for the unhappy Omar was hidden in the desolate solitude of his
ravished harem. To the Englishman, before whom he could speak openly
the old man had revealed the whole terrible story with vivid dramatic
force and all the flowery eloquence of which he was master. It was a
tale of misplaced confidence and faithlessness that, detected and
punished with oriental severity, had led to swift and dastardly
revenge. A headman of the tribe whom both the Sheik and his elder son
trusted implicitly had proved guilty of grave indiscretion that
undetected might have seriously impaired the prestige of the ruling
house. Deposed from his headmanship, and deserted with characteristic
vacillation by the adherents on whom he counted, the delinquent had
fled to the camp of the rival tribe, with whom he had already been in
secret negotiation. This much Mukair Ibn Zarrarah's spies had
ascertained, but not in time to prevent the catastrophe that followed.
Plans thought to be known only to the Sheik and his son had been
disclosed to the marauding Chief, who had long sought an opportunity of
aiming an effectual blow at his hated rival, and on one of Omar's
periodical tours of inspection to the more remote encampments of the
large and scattered tribe, the little caravan had been surrounded by an
overwhelmingly superior force led by the hereditary enemy and the
renegade tribesman. Hemmed in around the litter of the dearly loved
young wife, from whom he rarely parted, Omar and his small bodyguard
had fought desperately, but the outcome had been inevitable from the
first. Outnumbered they had fallen one by one under the vigorous
onslaughts of the attacking party who, victorious, had retired
southward as quickly as they had come, carrying with them the beautiful
Safiya--the price of the traitor's treachery. Covered with wounds and
left for dead under a heap of dying followers Omar and two others had
alone survived, and with death in his heart the young man had lived
only for the hour when he might avenge his honour. Animated by the one
fierce desire that sustained him he had struggled back to life to
superintend the preparations for retaliation that should be both
decisive and final. To old injuries had been added this crowning
insult, and the tribe of Mukair Ibn Zarrarah, roused to the highest
pitch of fury, were resolved to a man to exterminate or be
exterminated. The preparations had been almost completed when Craven
arrived at the camp, and tonight, for the first time, at a final war
council of all the principal headmen held in the Sheik's tent, he had
seen the stricken man and had hardly recognized in the gaunt attenuated
figure that only an inflexible will seemed to keep upright, the
handsome stalwart Arab who of all the tribe had most nearly approached
his own powerful physique. The frenzied despair in the dark flashing
eyes that met his struck an answering chord in his own heart and the
silent handclasp that passed between them seemed to ratify a common
desire. Here, too, was a man who for love of a woman sought death that
he might escape a life of terrible memory. A sudden sympathy born of
tacit understanding seemed to leap from one to the other, an affinity
of purpose that drew them strangely close together and brought to
Craven an odd sense of kinship that dispelled the difference he had
felt and enabled him to enter reservedly into the discussions that
followed. After this meeting he had gone back to his tent to make his
own final preparations with a feeling almost of exhilaration. To
Yoshio, more than usually stolid, he had given all necessary
instructions for the conveyance of his belongings to England.

Remained only the letter to his wife--a letter that seemed curiously
hard to begin. Pushing the writing materials from him he leant back
further in his chair, and searching in his pockets found and filled a
pipe with slow almost meticulous deliberation. Another search failed to
produce the match he required, and rising with a prolonged stretch he
bent over the table and lit his pipe at the lamp. Crossing the tent he
stood for a few moments in the doorway, but movements did not seem to
produce inspiration, and with an impatient shrug he returned to his
seat and sat staring gloomily at the blank sheet of paper before him.
The flaring light of the lamp illuminated his deeply tanned face and
lean muscular figure. In perfect physical condition and bronzed with
the African sun, he looked younger than when he had left England. At
that moment death and Barry Craven seemed very widely separated--and
yet in a few hours, he reflected with a curiosity that was oddly
impersonal, the vultures might be congregating round the body that was
now so strong and virile. "Handsome Barry Craven." He had heard a woman
say it in Lagos with a feeling of contemptuous amusement--a cynical
smile crossed his face as the remark recurred to him and he pictured
the loathing that would succeed admiration in the same woman's eyes if
she could see what would remain of him after the scavengers of the
desert had done their work. The thought gave him personally no feeling
of disgust. He had lived always too near to Nature to shrink from
contemplation of her merciless laws.

He filled another pipe and strove to collect his wandering thoughts,
but the power of definite expression seemed beyond him as there rose in
him with almost overwhelming force the terrible longing that never left
him--the craving to see her, to hear her voice. Of his own free will he
was putting away all that life could mean or hold for him, and in the
flood of natural reaction that set in he called himself a fool and
revolted at his self-imposed sentence. The old struggle recommenced,
the old temptation gripped him in all its bitterness, and never so
bitterly as to-night. In the revulsion of feeling that beset him it was
not death he shrank from but the thought of eternity--alone. Neither in
this world nor in the life everlasting would she be his, and in an
agony of longing his soul cried out in anguished loneliness. The
yearning for her grew intolerable, a burning physical ache that was
torture; but stronger far rose the finer nobler desire for the perfect
spiritual companionship that he would never know. By his own act it
would be denied him. By his own act he had made this hell in which he
lived, of his own making would be the hell of the hereafter. Always he
had recognised the justice of it, he did not attempt to deny the
justice of it now. But if it had been otherwise--if he had been free to
woo her, free to win her to his arms! It was not the least of his
punishment that, deep down in his heart, he had the firm conviction
that despite her assertions to the contrary, love was lying dormant in
her. And that love might have been his, would have been his, for the
strength and tenderness of his own passion would have compelled it. She
must have turned to him at last and in his love found happiness. And to
him her love would have been the crown of life--a life of exquisite joy
and beauty, a union of perfect and undivided sympathy. Together they
might have made the Towers a paradise on earth; together they might
have broken the curse of Craven; together they might have brought
happiness into the lives of many. And in the dream of what might have
been there came to him for the first time the longing for parenthood,
the desire for a child born of the woman he adored, a child who joining
in his tiny personality the essentials of each would be a tangible
proof of their mutual love, a child who would perpetuate the race he
sprang from. Craven's breath came fast with a new and tremendous
emotion. Then with terrible suddenness came a lightning flash of
recollection, a stabbing remembrance that laid his dream in pieces at
his feet. He heard again the low soft sobbing voice, "Are you not
glad?" He saw again O Hara San's pleading tear-filled eyes, felt again
her slender sorrow-shaken body trembling in his arms, and he bowed his
head on his hands in shuddering horror....

Numbed with the pain of memory and self-loathing he was unaware of the
renewal of noisy demonstration in the camp that to Yoshio's attentive
and interested ears pointed to the arrival of yet another adherent of
Mukair Ibn Zarrarah, an adherent of some special standing, judging from
the warmth of his reception. Moved by curiosity the Jap rose
noiselessly and passing unnoticed by his master vanished silently into
the night.

Some little while later the sound of a clear tenor voice calling to him
loudly by name sent Craven stumbling to his feet. He turned quickly
with outstretched hands to meet the tall young Arab, who burst
unceremoniously into the tent and flung himself upon him in boisterous
greeting. Gripped by a pair of muscular arms Craven submitted with an
Englishman's diffidence to the fervid oriental embrace that was
succeeded to his greater liking by a hearty and prolonged English
handshake and a storm of welcoming excited and almost incoherent
speech. "_C'est bien toi, mon vieux_! You are more welcome than you have
ever been--though I could wish you a thousand miles away, _mon ami_, but
of that, more, later. _Dame_, but I have ridden! As though the hosts of
Eblis were behind me. I was on leave when the messenger came for me--he
seems to have been peremptory in his demands, that same Selim.
Telegrams despatched to every likely place--one caught me fortunately
at Marseilles. Yes, I had been in Paris. I hastened to headquarters and
asked for long and indefinite leave on urgent private affairs, all the
lies I thought _mon colonel_ would swallow, but no word of war, _bien
entendu_! Praise be to _Allah_ they put no obstacle in my way and I left
at once. Since then I have ridden almost without stopping, night and
day. Two horses I have killed, the last lies dead of a broken heart
before my father's tent--you remember her?--my little Mimi, a chestnut
with a white star on her forehead, dear to me as the core of my heart.
For none but Omar would I have driven so, for I loved her, look you,
_mon ami_, as I could never love a woman. A woman! Bah! No woman in the
world was worth a toss of my Mimi's head. And I killed her, Craven.
Killed her who loved and trusted me, who never failed me. My little
Mimi! For the love of _Allah_ give me a whisky." And laughing and crying
together he collapsed with a groan on to Craven's bed but sat up again
immediately to gulp down the prohibited drink that was almost the last
in a nearly depleted flask.

"The Prophet never tasted whisky or he would not have forbidden it to
the true believer," he said with a boyish grin, as he handed back the
empty cup.

"Which you are not," commented Craven with a faint smile. "In the sense
you mean, no," replied Sad, swinging his heels to the ground and
searching in the folds of his burnous for a cigarette, which he lit and
smoked for a few minutes thoughtfully. Then with all trace of his
former excitement gone he began to discuss soberly the exigency of the
moment, revealing a sound judgment and levelness of mind that appeared
incompatible with his seemingly careless and easy-going disposition.
It was a deeper studiously hidden side of his character that Craven had
guessed very early in their acquaintance.

He talked now with unconcealed seriousness of the gravity of the
situation. In the short time he had been with his father before seeking
his friend he had mastered the particulars of the projected expedition
and, with his European knowledge, had suggested and even--with a force
of personality he had never before displayed in the old Sheik's
presence--insisted on certain alterations which he detailed now for
Craven's benefit, who concurred heartily, for they were identical with
suggestions put forward by himself which had been rejected as
impossible innovations by the conservative headmen, and conscious of
his position as guest he had not pressed them. Then with a sudden
change of tone the young Arab turned to Craven in frowning inquiry.

"But you, mon cher, what are you doing in this affair? It was that I
meant when I said I wished you a thousand miles away. You are my
friend, the friend of all of us, but friendship does not demand that
you ride with us to-night. That you would offer--yes--it was only to be
expected. But that we should accept your offer--no! a hundred times no!
you are an Englishman, a big man in your own country, what have you to
do with the tribal warfare of minor Arab Chiefs--voyez vous, I have my
moments of modesty! If anything should happen--as happen it very likely
will--what will your paternal British Government say? It will only add
to my father's difficulties with our own over-lords." There was a laugh
in his eyes though his voice was serious. Craven brushed his objection
aside with an indifferent hand.

"The British Government will not distress itself about me," he said
dryly. "I am not of sufficient importance."

For a few moments the Arab sat silent, smoking rapidly, then he raised
his dark eyes tentatively to Craven's face.

"In Paris they told me you were married," he said slowly, and the
remark was in itself ample indication of his European tendencies.

Craven turned away with an abrupt movement and bent over the lamp to
light his pipe. "They told you the truth," he said, with a certain
reluctance, his face hidden by a cloud of smoke. "_Pourtant_, I ride with
you to-night." There was a note of brusque finality in his voice that
Sad recognised, and he shrugged acquiescence as he lit another
cigarette. "It is almost certain death," he said, with nonchalant
oriental calm. But Craven did not answer and Sad relapsed into a
silence that was protracted. From the midst of the blue haze
surrounding him, his earnest scrutiny hidden by the thick lashes that
curved downwards to his swarthy cheek, he gazed intently through
half-closed eyes at the friend whose presence he found for the first
time embarrassing. Fatalist though he was in all things that concerned
himself, western influence had bitten deep enough to make him realise
that the same doctrine did not extend to Craven. He recognised that
self-determination came more largely into the Englishman's creed than
into his own. Whether he himself lived or died was a matter of no great
moment. But with Craven it was otherwise and he had no liking for the
thought that should the morrow's venture go against them his friend's
blood would, virtually, be upon his hands! So far had his Francophile
tendencies taken him. And the more he dwelt upon the uncomfortable fact
the less he liked it. He turned his attention more directly upon the
man himself and he noted changes that surprised and disturbed him.
The stern weary looking face was not the careless smiling one he
remembered. The man he had known had been vividly alive, care-free
and animated; one who had jested alike at life and death with an
indifferent laugh, but one who though careless of danger even to the
extent of foolhardiness had never given any indication of a desire to
quit a life that was obviously easy and attractive. But this man was
different, grave and abrupt of speech, with an air of tired suffering,
and a grim purposefulness in his determination to ignore his friend's
warning that conveyed an impression of underlying sinister intent that
set the Arab wondering what sting had poisoned his life even to the
desire to sacrifice it. For the look on Craven's face was not new to
him, he had seen it before--on the face of a French officer in Algiers
who had subsequently taken his own life, and again this very evening
on the face of his brother Omar. The personalities of the three men
were widely different, but the expression of each was identical.
The deduction was simple and yet to him wholly inexplicable. A
woman--without doubt a woman! In the first two cases it was certainly
so, he seemed to know instinctively that here, too, he was not mistaken
in his supposition. A puzzled look crept into his fine dark eyes and a
cynical smile hovered round his mouth as he viewed these three dissimilar
men from the height of his own contemptuous indifference towards any and
every woman. It was a weakness he did not understand, a phase of life
that held no meaning for him at all. He had never bestowed a second
glance on any woman of his own race, the attentions of European women
in Paris and Algiers had been met with cold scorn that he masked with
racial gravity of demeanour or frank insolence according to
circumstances. For him women did not exist; he lived for his horses,
for his regiment and for sport. To his strangely cold nature the
influence that women exercised over other men was a thing
inconceivable--the houris of the paradise of his fathers' creed were to
him no incentive to enter the realms of the blessed. A character apart,
incomprehensible alike to the warm-blooded Frenchmen with whom he
associated and to his own passionate countrymen, he maintained his
peculiarity tranquilly, undisturbed by the banter of his friends and
the admonitions of his father, who in view of his heir's childlessness
regarded his younger son's temperament with growing uneasiness as the
years advanced.

The action of the French officer in Algiers had provoked in Sad only
intolerant contempt but, as he realised tonight, contempt was not
possible in the cases of Craven and his brother. He pondered it with a
curious feeling of irritation. What was it after all, this emotion of
which he was ignorant--this compelling impulse that entered into a man
driving him beyond the power of endurance? It was past his
comprehension. And he wondered suddenly for the first time why he had
been made so different to the generality of men. But introspection was
foreign to him, he had not been in the habit of dissecting his own
personality and his thoughts turned quickly with greater interest to
the man who sat near him plunged like himself into silent reverie. And
as he looked he scowled with angry irritation. The Frenchman in Algiers
had not mattered, but Omar and Craven mattered very much. He resented
the suffering he did not understand--the termination of a friendship he
valued, for it was almost inevitable should Craven persist in his
decision and the loss of a brother who was dearer to him than he would
admit and whose death would mean a greater change in his own life than
he cared to contemplate. That through a woman this should be possible!
With hearty thoroughness and picturesque attention to detail he
silently cursed all women in general and two women in particular. For
the seriousness of the venture lay, at the moment, heavily upon him. He
was tired and his enthusiasm temporarily damped by the unexpected and
incomprehensible attitude of the two men by whom alone he permitted
himself to be influenced. But gradually his natural buoyancy reasserted
itself, and abandoning as insoluble the perplexing problem, he spoke
again eagerly of the impending meeting with his hereditary foes. For
half an hour they talked earnestly and then Sad rose, announcing his
intention of getting a few hours sleep before the early start. But he
deferred his going, making one pretext after another for remaining,
walking about the little tent in undecided hesitation, plainly
embarrassed. Finally he swung toward Craven with a characteristic
gesture of his long arms.

"Can I say nothing to deter you from this expedition?"

"Nothing," replied Craven; "you always promised me a fight some day--do
you want to do me out of it now, you selfish devil?" he added with a
laugh, to which Sad did not respond. With an inarticulate grunt he
moved toward the door, pausing as he went out to fling over his
shoulder: "I'll send you a burnous and the rest of the kit."

"A burnous--what for?"

"What for?" echoed Sad, coming back into the tent, his eyes wide with
astonishment. "_Allah_! to wear, of course, _mon cher_. You can't go as
you are."

"Why not?"

The Arab rolled his eyes heavenward and waved his hands in protest as
he burst out vehemently: "Because they will take you for a Frenchman, a
spy, an agent of the Government, and they will finish you off even
before they turn their attention to us. They hate us, by the Koran! but
they hate a Frenchman worse. You wouldn't have the shadow of a chance."

Craven looked at him curiously for a few moments, and then he smiled.
"You're a good fellow, Sad," he said quietly, taking the cigarette the
other offered, "but I'll go as I am, all the same. I'm not used to your
picturesque togs, they would only hamper me."

For a little while longer Sad remained arguing and entreating by turns
and then went away suddenly in the middle of a sentence, and for a few
minutes Craven stood in the door of the tent watching his retreating
figure by the light of the newly risen moon with a smile that softened
his face incredibly.

Then he turned back into the tent and once more drew toward him the
writing materials.

The difficulty he had before felt had passed away. It seemed suddenly
quite easy to write and he wondered why it had appeared so impossible
earlier in the evening. Words, phrases, leaped to his mind, sentences
seemed to form themselves, and, with rapidly moving pen, he wrote
without faltering for the best part of an hour--all he had never dared
to say, more almost than he had ever dared to think. He did not spare
himself. The tragic history of O Hara San he gave in all its
pitifulness without attempting to extenuate or shield himself in any
way; he sketched frankly the girl's loneliness and childish ignorance,
his own casual and selfish acceptance of the sacrifice she made and the
terrible catastrophe that had brought him to abrupt and horrible
conviction of himself, and his subsequent determination to end the life
he had marred and wasted. He wrote of the coming of John Locke's letter
at the moment of his deepest abasement, and of the chance it had seemed
to offer; of her own entry into his life and the love for her that
almost from the first moment had sprung up within him.

In its entirety he laid bare the burning hopeless passion that consumed
him, the torturing longing that possessed him, and the knowledge of his
own unworthiness that had driven him from her that she might be free
with a freedom that would be at last absolute. But even in this letter
which tore down so completely the barrier between them he did not admit
to her the true reason of his marriage, he preferred to leave it
obscure as it had always been, even should the motive she might
attribute to him be the wrong one. He must chance that and the
impression it might leave with her. Her future life he alluded to very
briefly not caring to dwell on business that was already cut and dried,
but referring her to Peters who was fully instructed and on whose
advice and help she could count. He expressed no wish with regard to
Craven Towers and his other properties, leaving her free to dispose of
or retain them as she pleased. He shrank from suggesting in any way
that she benefited by his death.

He saw her before him as he wrote. It seemed almost as if the ardent
passionate wards were spoken to present listening ears, and as with
Peters' letter he did not reread the many closely written sheets. What
use? He did not wish to alter or amend anything he had said. He had
done, and a deeper peace came to him than he had known since those far
away days in Japan.

He called to Yoshio. Almost before the words had left his lips the man
was beside him. And as the Jap listened to the minute instructions
given him the light that had sprung to his eyes died out of them and
his face became if possible more than usually stolid and inscrutable.

"You quite understand?" said Craven in conclusion. "You will wait here
until it becomes evident that further waiting is useless. Then you are
to go straight back to England and give those letters into Mrs.
Craven's own hand."

With marked reluctance Yoshio slowly took up the two heavy packets and
fingered them for a time silently. Then with a sudden exclamation in
his own language he shook his head and pushed them back across the
table. "Going with master," he announced phlegmatically, and raised his
eyes with a glance that was at once provocative and stubborn. Craven
met his direct stare with a feeling of surprise. Only once before had
the docile Japanese asserted himself definitely and the memory of it
made anger now impossible. He pointed to the letters lying on the table
between them. "You have your orders," he said quietly, and cut short
further protests with a quick gesture of authority. "Do as you're told,
you obstinate little devil," he added, with a short laugh. And like a
chidden child Yoshio pocketed the letters sullenly. Stifling a yawn
Craven kicked off his boots and moved over to the bed with a glance at
his watch. He flung himself down, dressed as he was.

"Two hours, Yoshio--not a minute longer," he murmured drowsily, and
slept almost before his head touched the pillow.

For an hour or more, squatting motionless on his heels in the middle of
the tent, Yoshio watched him, his mask-like face expressionless, his
eyes fixed in an unwavering stare. Then he rose cautiously and glided
from the tent.

During the last two years Craven had become accustomed to snatching a
few hours of sleep when and how he could. He slept now deeply and
dreamlessly. And when the two hours were passed and Yoshio woke him he
sprang up, wide awake on the instant, refreshed by the short rest. In
silence that was no longer sullen the valet indicated a complete Arab
outfit he had brought back with him to the tent, but Craven waved it
aside with a smile at the thought of Sad's pertinacity and finished
his dressing quickly. As he concluded his hasty preparations he found
time to wonder at his own frame of mind. He had an odd feeling of
aloofness that precluded even excitement. It was as if his spirit,
already freed, looked down from some immeasurable height with scant
interest upon the doings of a being who wore the earthly semblance of
himself but who mattered not at all. He seemed to be above and beyond
actualities. He heard himself repeating the instructions he had given
earlier to Yoshio, he found himself taking leave of the faithful little
Jap and wondering slightly at the man's apparent unconcern. But outside
the little tent the strange feeling left him suddenly as it had come.
The cool wind that an hour later would usher in the dawn blew about his
face dispelling the visionary sensation that had taken hold of him. He
drew a deep breath looking eagerly at the beauty of the moon-lit night,
feeling himself once more keenly alive, keenly excited at the prospect
of the coming venture.

Excitement was rife also in the camp and he made his way with
difficulty through the jostling throng of men and horses towards the
rallying point before the old Sheik's tent. The noise was deafening,
and trampling screaming horses wheeled and backed among the crowd
pressing around them. With shouts of acclamation a way was made for the
Englishman and he passed through the dense ranks to the open space
where Mukair Ibn Zarrarah with his two sons and a little group of
headmen were standing. They welcomed him with characteristic gravity
and Sad proffered the inevitable cigarette with a reproachful glance
at his khaki clothing. For a few moments they conversed and then the
Sheik stepped forward with uplifted hand. The clamour of the people
gave way to a deep silence. In a short impassioned speech the old man
bade his tribe go forward in the name of the one God, Merciful and
Beneficent. And as his arm dropped to his side again a mighty shout
broke from the assembled multitude. _Allah! Allah!_ the fierce exultant
cry rose in a swelling volume of sound as the fighting men leaped to
their maddened horses dragging them back into orderly ranks from among
the press of onlookers and tossing their long guns in the air in
frenzied excitement. A magnificent black stallion was led up to Craven,
and the Sheik soothed the beautiful quivering creature, caressing his
shapely head with trembling nervy fingers. "He is my favourite, he will
carry you well," he murmured with a proud smile as he watched Craven
handling the spirited animal. Mounted Craven bent down and wrung Mukair
Ibn Zarrarah's hand and in another moment he found himself riding
between Omar and Sad at the head of the troop as it moved off followed
by the ringing shouts of those who were left behind. He had a last
momentary glimpse of the old Sheik, a solitary upright figure of
pathetic dignity, standing before his tent, and then the camp seemed to
slide away behind them as the pace increased and they reached the edge
of the oasis and emerged on to the open desert. A few minutes more and
the fretting horses settled down into a steady gallop. The dense ranks
of tribesmen were silent at last, and only the rythmical thud of hoofs
sounded with a muffled beat against the soft shifting sand.

Craven felt himself in strange accordance with the men with whom he
rode. The love of hazardous adventure that was in his blood leaped into
activity and a keen fierce pleasure swept him at the thought of the
coming conflict. The death he sought was the death he had always hoped
for--the crashing clamour of the battlefield, the wild tumultuous
impact of contending forces, with the whining scream of flying bullets
in his ears. To die--and, dying, to atone!

    "_Come to Me all ye who ... are heavy laden
     and I will give you rest_."

Might that ineffable rest that was promised be even for him? Would his
deep repentance, the agony of spirit he had endured, be payment enough?
Eternal death--the everlasting hell of the Jehovah of the ancients! Not
that, merciful God, but the compassion of Christ:

    "_He that cometh unto Me I will in no wise cast out_."

On that terrible day in Yokohama that seemed so many weary years ago
Craven had laid his sin-stained soul in all sincerity and humbleness at
the feet of the Divine Redeemer, but with no thought or hope of
forgiveness. Always the necessity of personal atonement had remained
with him, without which by his reasoning there could be no salvation.
That offered, but not until then, he would trust in the compassion that
passed man's understanding. And to-night--to-day--he seemed nearer than
he had ever been to the fulfilment of his desire. The mental burden
that had lain like an actual crushing weight upon him seemed to slip
away into nothingness. A long deep sigh of wonderful relief escaped him
and he drew himself straighter in the saddle, a new peace dawning in
his eyes as he raised them to the starlit sky. Out of the past there
flashed into his mind the picture--forgotten since the days of
childhood--of Christian freed of his burden at the foot of the Cross,
as represented in the old copy of the "Pilgrim's Progress" over which
he had pored as a boy, enthralled by the quaint text which he had known
nearly by heart and fascinated by the curious illustrations that had
appealed to his young imagination.

The years rolled back, he saw himself again a little lad stretched on
the rug before the fire in the library at Craven Towers, the big book
propped open before him, studying with a child's love of the grotesque
the grisly picture of Apollyon whose hideous black-winged form had to
his boyish mind been the actual image of the devil, a tangible demon
whom he had longed to conquer like Christian armed with sword and
shield. The childish idea, a bodily adversary to contend with--it would
have been simpler. But the devil in a man's own heart, the insidious
inward prompting to sin that unrepelled grows imperceptibly stronger
and greater until the realisation of sin committed comes with horrible
suddenness! To Craven, as to many others, came the futile longing to
have his life to live again, to start afresh from the days of innocency
when he had hung, enraptured, over the woodcuts of the "Pilgrim's
Progress." He forced his thoughts back to the present. Death, not life,
lay before him. Instinctively he glanced at the man who rode at his
right hand. In the cold white moonlight the Arab's face was like a
piece of beautiful carved bronze, still and terrible in its fixed
intentness. Sitting his horse with evident difficulty, animated by mere
strength of will, his wasted frame rigidly upright, his sombre tragic
eyes peering steadfastly ahead, he seemed in his grim purposefulness
the very incarnation of avenging justice. And as Craven looked at him
covertly he wondered what lay hidden behind those set features, what of
hope, what of fear, what of despair was seething in the fierce heart of
the desert man. Of the dearly loved wife who had been ravished from him
there had come no further word, her fate was unknown. Had she died, or
did she still live--in shameful captivity, the slave of the renegade
who had made her the price of his treachery? What additional horror
still awaited the unhappy husband who rode to avenge her? With a slight
shudder Craven turned from the contemplation of a sorrow that seemed to
him even greater than his own and sought his left hand neighbour. With
a quick smile Sad's eyes met his. With an easy swing of his graceful
body he drew his horse nearer to the spirited stallion Craven was
riding but did not speak. The ready flow of conversation that was
habitual had apparently forsaken him.

The young Arab's silence was welcome, Craven had himself no desire to
speak. The dawn wind was blowing cool against his forehead, soothing
him. The easy gallop of the horse between his knees, tractable and
steady now he was allowed free rein, was to him the height of physical
enjoyment. He would get from it what he could, he thought with a swift
smile of self mockery--the flesh still urged in contradiction to his
firm resolve. It was a blind country through which they were riding,
though seemingly level the ground rose and fell in a succession of long
undulating sweeps that made a wide outlook impossible. A regiment could
lie hidden in the hollows among the twisting deviating sandy hillocks
and be passed unnoticed. And as he topped each rise at the head of the
Arab troop Craven looked forward eagerly with unfailing interest. He
hardly knew for what he looked for their destination lay many miles
further southward and the possibility of unexpected attack had been
foreseen by Mukair Ibn Zarrarah, whose scouts had ranged the district
for weeks past, but the impression once aroused of an impending
something lingered persistently and fixed his attention.

From time to time the waiting scouts joined them, solitary horsemen
riding with reckless speed over the broken ground or slipping silently
from the shadow of a side track to make a brief report and then take
their place among the ranks of tribesmen. So far they told no more than
was already known. The wind blew keener as the dawn approached. Far in
the east the first faint pinky streaks were spreading across the sky,
overhead the twinkling stars paled one by one and vanished. The
atmosphere grew suddenly chill. The surrounding desert had before been
strangely silent, not so much as the wailing cry of a jackal had broken
the intense stillness, but now an even deeper hush, mysterious and
pregnant, closed down over the land. For the time all nature seemed to
hang in suspense, waiting, watching. To Craven the wonder of the dawn
was not new, he had seen if often in many countries, but it was a
marvel of which he never tired. And there was about this sunrise a
significance that had been attached to no other he had ever witnessed.
Eagerly he watched the faint flush brighten and intensify, the pale
streaks spread and widen into far flung bars of flaming gold and
crimson. Daylight came with startling suddenness and as the glowing
disc of the sun rose red above the horizon a horseman broke from the
galloping ranks, and spurring in advance of the troop, wheeled his
horse and dragged him to an abrupt standstill. Rising in his stirrups
he flung his arms in fervid ecstasy toward the heavens. Craven
recognised in him a young Mullah of fanatical tendencies who had been
particularly active in the camp during the preceding week. That the
opposing tribe was of a different sect, abhorred by the followers of
Mukair Ibn Zarrarah, had been an original cause of dissent between
them, and the priests had made good use of the opportunity of fanning
religious zeal.

The cavalcade came to a sudden halt, and as Craven with difficulty reined
in his own horse the sustained and penetrating cry of the muezzin rose
weirdly high and clear on the morning air, "_al-ilah-ilah_." The
arresting and solemn invocation had always had for Craven a peculiar
fascination, and as the last lingering notes died away it was not
purely from a motive of expediency that he followed the common impulse
and knelt among the prostrate Arabs. His creed differed from theirs but
he worshipped the same God as they, and in his heart he respected their
overt profession of faith.

As he rose from his knees he caught Sad's eyes bent on him with a
curious look in them of interrogation that was at once faintly mocking
and yet sad. But the expression passed quickly into a boyish grin as he
waved an unlit cigarette toward the fiery young priest who had seized
the chance to embark on a passionate harangue.

"When prayer is ended disperse yourselves through the land as ye list,"
he murmured, with a flippant laugh at the perverted quotation. "The
holy man will preach till our tongues blacken with thirst." And he
turned to his brother to urge him to give the order to remount. Omar
was leaning against his horse, his tall figure sagging with fatigue. He
started violently as Sad spoke to him, and, staggering, would have
fallen but for the strong arm slipped round him. And, watching Craven
saw with dismay a dark stain mar the whiteness of his robes where a
wound had broken out afresh, and he wondered whether the weakened body
would be able to respond to the urging of the resolute will that drove
it mercilessly, or, when almost within view, the fiercely longed for
revenge would yet be snatched from him.

But with an effort the Arab pulled himself together and, mounting,
painfully cut short the Mullah's eloquence and gave in a firm tone the
desired order.

The swift gallop southward was resumed.

The breeze dropped gradually and finally died away, but for an hour or
more the refreshing coolness lingered. Then as the sun rose higher and
gained in strength the air grew steadily warmer until the heat became
intense and Craven began to look eagerly for the oasis that was to be
their first halting place. In full daylight the landscape that by night
had seemed to possess an eerie charm developed a dull monotony. The
successive rise and fall of the land, always with its limited outlook,
became tedious, and the labyrinthine hillocks with their intricate
windings seemed to enclose them inextricably. But on reaching the
summit of a longer steeper incline that had perceptibly slowed the
galloping horses, he saw spread out before him a level tract of country
stretching far into the distance, with a faint blue smudge beyond of
the chain of hills that Sad told him marked the boundary of the
territory that Mukair Ibn Zarrarah regarded as his own, the boundary,
too, of French jurisdiction. Through a defile in the hills lay the
enemy country.

The change was welcome to men and horses alike, the latter--aware with
unerring instinct of the nearness of water--of their own accord
increased their pace and thundering down the last long shifting slope
pressed forward eagerly toward the oasis that Craven judged to be
between two and three miles away. In the clear deceptive atmosphere it
appeared much nearer, and yet as they raced onward it seemed to come no
closer but rather to recede as though some malevolent demon of the
desert in wanton sport was conjuring it tantalizingly further and
further from them. The tall feathery palms, seen through the shimmering
heat haze, took an exaggerated height towering fantastically above the
scrub of bushy thorn trees.

Craven had even a moment's doubt whether the mirage-like oasis actually
existed or was merely a delusion bred of fancy and desire. But the
absurdity of the doubt came home to him as he looked again at the
outline of the distant hills--too conspicuous a landmark to allow of
any error on the part of his companions to whom the country was
familiar.

The prospect of the welcome shade made him more sensitive to the
scorching strength of the sun that up till now he had endured without
more than a passing sensation of discomfort. He was inured to heat, but
to-day's heat was extraordinary, and even the Arabs were beginning to
show signs of distress. It was many hours since they started and the
pace had been killing. His mouth was parched and his eyeballs smarted
with the blinding glare. With the thirst that increased each moment the
last half mile seemed longer than all the preceding ride, and when the
oasis was at length reached he slipped from his sweating horse with an
exclamation of relief.

The Arabs crowded round the well and in a moment the little peaceful
spot was the scene of noisy confusion; men shouting, scrambling and
gesticulating, horses squealing, and above all the creaking whine of
the tackling over the well droning mournfully as the bucket rose and
fell. Sad swung himself easily to the ground and held his brother's
plunging horse while he dismounted. For a few moments they conversed
together in a rapid undertone, and then the younger man turned to
Craven, a cloud on his handsome face. "Our communication has broken
down. Two scouts should have met us here," he said, with a hint of
anxiety in his voice. "It disconcerts our scheme for we counted on
their report. They may be late--it is hardly likely. They had ample
time. More probably they have been ambushed--the country is filled with
spies--in which event the advantage lies with the other side. They will
know that we have started, while we shall have no further information.
The two men who are missing were the only ones operating beyond the
border. The last scout who reported himself was in touch with them last
night. From them he learned that two days ago the enemy were forty
miles south of the hills yonder. We had hoped to catch them unawares,
but they may have got wind of our intentions and be nearer than we
expect. The curse of _Allah_ on them!" he added impatiently.

"What are you going to do?" asked Craven with a backward glance at the
dismounted tribesmen clustering round the well and busily employed in
making preparations for rest and food. Sad beckoned to a passing Arab
and dispatched him with a hurried order. Then he turned again to
Craven. "The horses must rest though the men would go forward at a
word. I am sending two scouts to reconnoitre the defile and bring back
what information they can," he said. And as he spoke the two men he had
sent for appeared with disciplined promptness and reined in beside him.
Having received their brief instructions they started off in a cloud of
dust and sand at the usual headlong gallop. Sad turned away
immediately and disappeared among the jostling crowd, but Craven
lingered at the edge of the oasis looking after the fast receding
horsemen who, crouched low in their saddles, their long white cloaks
swelling round them, were very literally carrying out their orders to
ride "swift as the messengers of Azrael." He had known them both on his
previous visits, though he had not recognised them in the dark hours of
the dawn when they joined the troop, and remembered them as two of the
most dare-devil and intrepid of Mukair Ibn Zarrarah's followers. A
moment since they had grinned at him in cheery greeting, exhibiting
almost childlike pleasure when he had called them by name, and had set
off with an obeisance as deep to him as to their leader.

Incidents of those earlier visits flashed through his mind as he
watched them speeding across the glaring plain and a feeling almost of
regret came to him that it should be these two particular men who had
been selected for the hazardous mission. For he guessed that their
chance of return was slight. And yet hardly slighter than for the rest
of them! With a shrug he moved away slowly and sought the shadow of a
camel thorn. He lay on his back in the welcome patch of shade, his
helmet tilted over his eyes, drawing vigorously at a cigarette in the
vain hope of lessening the attentions of the swarms of tormenting flies
that buzzed about him, and waiting patiently for the desired water
before he swallowed the dark brown unsavoury mass of crushed dates
which, warm from his pocket and gritty with the sand that penetrated
everything, was the only food available. Sad was still busy among the
throng of men and horses, but near him Omar sat plunged in gloomy
silence, his melancholy eyes fixed on the distant hills. He had
re-adjusted his robes, screening the ominous stain that revealed what
he wished to hide. His hands, which alone might have betrayed the emotion
surging under his outward passivity, were concealed in the folds of his
enveloping burnous. When the immediate wants of men and horses were
assuaged the prevailing clamour gave place to sudden quiet as the Arabs
lay down and, muffling their heads in their cloaks, seemed to fall
instantly asleep. His supervision ended, Sad reappeared, and following
the example of his men was soon snoring peacefully. Craven rolled over
on his side, and lighting another cigarette settled himself more
comfortably on the warm ground. For a time he watched the solitary
sentinel sitting motionless on his horse at no great distance from the
oasis. Then a vulture winging its slow heavy way across the heavens
claimed his attention and he followed it with his eyes until it passed
beyond his vision. He was too lazy and too comfortable to turn his
head. He lay listening to the shrill hum of countless insect life,
smoking cigarette after cigarette till the ground around him was
littered with stubs and match ends. The hours passed slowly. When he
looked at the guard again the Arab was varying the monotony by walking
his horse to and fro, but he had not moved further into the desert. And
suddenly as Craven watched him he wheeled and galloped back toward the
camp. Craven started up on his arm, screening his eyes from the sun and
staring intently in the direction of the hills. But there was nothing
to be seen in the wide empty plain, and he sank down again with a smile
at his own impatience as the reason of the man's return occurred to
him. Reaching the oasis the Arab led his horse among the prostrate
sleepers and kicked a comrade into wakefulness to take his place. From
time to time the intense stillness was broken by a movement among the
horses, and once or twice a vicious scream came from a stallion
resenting the attentions of a restless neighbour. The slumbering Arabs
lay like sheeted figures of the dead save when some uneasy dreamer
rolled over with a smothered grunt into a different position. Craven
had begun to wonder how much longer the siesta would be protracted when
Omar rose stiffly, and going to his brother's side awoke him with a
hand on his shoulder. Sad sat up blinking sleepily and then leaped
alertly to his feet. In a few minutes the oasis was once more filled
with noisy activity. But this time there was no confusion. The men
mounted quickly and the troop was reformed with the utmost dispatch.
The horses broke almost immediately into the long swinging gallop that
seemed to eat up the miles under their feet.

The fiercest heat of the day was passed. The haze that had hung
shimmering over the plain had cleared away and the hills they were
steadily nearing grew more clearly defined. Soon the conformation of
the range was easily discernible, the rocky surface breaking up into
innumerable gullies and ravines, the jagged ridges standing out clean
against the deep blue of the sky. Another mile and Sad turned to him
with outstretched hand, pointing eagerly. "See, to the right, there, by
that shaft of rock that looks like a minaret, is the entrance to the
defile. It is well masked. It comes upon one suddenly. A stranger would
hardly find the opening until he was close upon it. In the dawn when
the shadows are black I have ridden past it myself once or twice and
had to--_Allah_! Selim--and alone!" he cried suddenly, and shot ahead of
his companions. The troop halted at Omar's shouted command, but Craven
galloped after his friend. He had caught sight of the horseman emerging
from the pass a moment after Sad had seen him and the same thought had
leaped to the mind of each--the news on which so much depended might
still never reach them. The spy came on toward them slowly, his horse
reeling under him, and man and beast alike were nearly shot to pieces.
As Sad drew alongside of them the wounded horse collapsed and the
dying man fell with him, unable to extricate himself. In a flash the
Arab Chief was on his feet, and with a tremendous effort pulled the
dead animal clear of his follower's crushed and quivering limbs.
Slipping an arm about him he raised him gently, and bending low to
catch the faint words he could scarcely hear, held him until the
fluttering whisper trailed into silence, and with a convulsive shudder
the man died in his arms.

Laying the corpse back on the sand he wiped his blood-stained hands on
the folds of his cloak, then swung into the saddle again and turned to
Craven, his eyes blazing with anger and excitement. "They were trapped
in the defile--ten against two--but Selim got through somehow to make
his reconnaissance, and they finished him off on the way back--though I
don't think he left many behind him! Either our plans have been
betrayed--or it may be merely a coincidence. Whichever it is they are
waiting for us yonder, on the other side of the hills. They have saved
us a day's journey--at the very least," he added with a short laugh
that was full of eager anticipation.

They waited until Omar and the troop joined them, and after a short
consultation with the headmen it was decided to press forward without
delay. Aware that but few hours of daylight remained, Craven deemed it
a foolhardy decision, but Omar was deeply stirred at the nearness
of the man who had wronged him--for Selim had managed to extract that
information from one of his opponents before killing him--and the
tribesmen were eager for immediate action. The horses, too, were fresh
enough, thanks to the mid-day rest. The troop moved on again, a guard
of fifty picked men slightly in advance of the main body.

At the foot of the hills they drew rein to reform for the defile only
admitted of three horses walking abreast, and as Craven waited for his
own turn to come to enter the narrow pass he looked curiously at the
bare rock face that rose almost perpendicularly out of the sand and
towered starkly above him. But he had no time for a lengthy inspection,
and in a few minutes, with Omar and Sad on either hand, he guided his
horse round the jutting spur of rock that masked the opening and rode
into the sombre shade of the defile. The change was startling, and he
shivered with the sudden chill that seemed so much cooler by contrast
with the heat of the plain. Hemmed in by sheer sinister looking cliffs,
which were broken at intervals by lateral ravines, the tortuous track
led over rough slippery ground sprinkled with huge boulders that made
any pace beyond a walk impossible. The horses stumbled continually and
the necessity of keeping a sharp look-out for each succeeding obstacle
drove from Craven's mind everything but the matter in hand. He forgot
to wonder how near or how far from the other side of the hills lay the
opposing force, or whether they would have time to reform before being
attacked or be picked off by waiting marksmen as they emerged from the
pass without any possibility of putting up a fight. For himself it
didn't after all very much matter one way or the other, but it would be
hard luck, he reflected, if Omar did not get a chance at the renegade
and Sad was shot before the encounter he was aching for--and broke off
to swear at his horse, which had stumbled badly for the sixth time.

Omar was riding a pace or two in advance, bending forward in the saddle
and occasionally swaying as if from weakness, his burning eyes filled
with an almost mystical light as if he saw some vision that, hidden
from the others, was revealed to him alone. The dark stain on his robe
had spread beyond concealment and he had not spoken since they entered
the defile. To Craven, who had never before traversed it, the pass was
baffling. He did not know its extent and he had no idea of the depth
of the hills. But soon a growing excitement on the part of Sad made
him aware that the exit must be near and the continued silence argued
that the vanguard had got through unmolested. He slipped the button of
his holster and freed his revolver from the silk handkerchief in which
Yoshio had wrapped it.

A sharp turn to the right revealed the scene of the ambuscade, where in
one of the lateral openings Selim and his companion had been trapped.
The bodies of men and horses had been pulled clear of the track by the
advance guard as they went by a few minutes earlier. The old sheik's
horse showed the utmost repugnance to the grim pile of corpses,
snorting and rearing dangerously, and Craven wrestled with him for some
moments before he bounded suddenly past them with a clatter of hoofs
that sent the loose stones flying in all directions.

Another turn to the right, an equally sharp bend to the left, where the
track widened considerably, and they debouched abruptly into open
desert.

The vanguard was drawn up in order and their leader spurred to Omar's
side in eager haste to communicate what was patent to the eyes of all.
A little ripple of excitement went through Craven as he saw the dense
body of horsemen, still about two miles away, who were galloping
steadily towards them. It had come then. With a curious smile he bent
forward and patted the neck of his fretting horse, which was fidgeting
badly. The opposing force appeared to outnumber them considerably, but
he knew from Sad that Mukair Ibn Zarrarah's men were better equipped
and better trained. It would be skill against brute force, though it
yet remained to be seen how far Omar's men would respond to their
training when put to the test. Would they be able to control their own
headstrong inclinations or would their zeal carry them away in defiance
of carefully rehearsed orders?

Word of the near presence of the enemy had been sent back to those who
were still moving up the pass, and so far discipline was holding good.
The men were pouring out from the yawning mouth of the file in a steady
stream, the horses crowded together as closely as possible, and as each
detachment arrived it reformed smartly under its own headman.

Watching the rapid approach of the hostile tribe, Craven wondered
whether there would be time for their own force to reassemble to enable
them to carry out the agreed tactics.

Already they were within half a mile. He had reined back to speak to
Omar, when a shout of exultation from Sad, taken up by his followers
till the rocks above them echoed with the ringing cry, heralded the
arrival of the last party. There was no time to recapitulate orders or
to urge steadiness among the men. With almost no sign from Omar, or so
it seemed to Craven, with another deafening shout that drowned the
yelling of the enemy the whole force leaped forward simultaneously.
Craven's teeth clenched on his lip in sudden fear for Omar's plan of
attack, but a quick glance assured him that the madly galloping horses
were being kept in good formation, and that fast as was the pace the
right and left wing were, according to instructions, steadily opening
out and drawing forward in an extended line. The feeling of excitement
had left him, and, revolver in hand, he sat down firmer in the saddle
with no more emotion than if he were in the hunting field at home.

They were now close enough to distinguish faces--it would be an
almighty crash when it did come! It was surprising that up till now
there had been no shooting. Accustomed to the Arabs' usually reckless
expenditure of ammunition he had been prepared minutes ago for a hail
of bullets. And with the thought came a solitary whining scream past
his ear, and Sad, close on his left, flung him a look of reproach and
shouted something of which he only caught the words, "Frenchman ...
burnous."

But there was no time left to reply. Following rapidly on the single
shot a volley was poured in among them, but the shooting was inaccurate
and did very little damage. That it had been intended to break the
charge and cause confusion in the orderly ranks was apparent from the
further repeated volleys that, nearer, did more deadly execution than
the first one. But, bending low in their saddles, Mukair Ibn Zarrarah's
men swept on in obedience to Omar's command. His purpose was, by the
sheer strength of his onset, to cut through the opposing force with his
centre while the wings closed in on either side. To effect this he had
bidden his men ride as they had never ridden before and reserve their
fire till the last moment, when it would be most effectual. And the
swift silent onslaught seemed to be other than the enemy had expected,
for there were among them signs of hesitation, their advance was
checked, and the firing became wilder and more erratic. Omar and his
immediate companions appeared to bear charmed lives, bullets sang past
them, over and around them, and though here and there a man fell from
the saddle or a horse dropped suddenly, the main body raced on
unscathed, or with wounds they did not heed in the frenzy of the
moment.

The pace was terrific, and when at last Omar gave the signal for which
his men were waiting, the crackling reverberation of their rifles had
not died away when the impact came. But the shattering crash that
Craven had expected did not occur. Giving way before them and
scattering to right and left a break came in the ranks of the opposing
force, through which they drove like a living wedge. Then with fierce
yells of execration the enemy rallied and the next moment Craven found
himself in the midst of a confused mle where friends and foes were
almost indistinguishable. The thundering of horses' hoofs, the raucous
shouting of the Arabs, the rattle of musketry, combined in deafening
uproar. The air was dense with clouds of sand and smoke, heavy with the
reek of powder. He had lost sight of Omar, he tried to keep near to
Sad, but in the throng of struggling men he was carried away, cut off
from his own party, hemmed in on every side, fighting alone. He had
forgotten his desire for death, his heart was leaping with a kind of
delirious happiness that found nothing but fierce enjoyment in the
scene around him. The stench in his nostrils of blood and sulphur
seemed to awaken memories of another existence when he had fought for
his life as he was doing now, unafraid, and caring little for the
outcome. He was shooting steadily, exulting in his markmanship with no
thought in his mind but the passionate wish to kill and kill, and he
laughed with almost horrible pleasure as he emptied his revolver at the
raving Arabs who surrounded him. Drunk with the blood lust of an
unremembered past for the moment he was only a savage like them. And to
the superstitious desert men he seemed possessed, and with sudden awe
they had begun to draw away from him when a further party galloped up
to reinforce them. Craven swung his horse to meet the new-comers and at
the same moment realised that he had no cartridges left. With another
reckless laugh he dashed his empty revolver in the face of the nearest
Arab and, wheeling, spurred forward in an attempt to break through the
circle round him. But he found retreat cut off. Three men bore down
upon him simultaneously with levelled rifles. He saw them fire, felt a
sharp searing as of a red hot wire through his side, and, reeling in
the saddle, heard dimly their howl of triumph as they raced toward
him--heard also another yell that rose above the Arabs' clamour, a
piercing yell that sounded strangely different to the Arabic intonation
ringing in his ears. And as he gripped himself and raised his head he
had a vision of another horseman mounted on a frenzied trampling roan
that, apparently out of control and mad with excitement, was charging
down upon them, a horseman whose fluttering close-drawn headgear shaded
features that were curiously Mongolian--and then he went down in a
welter of men and horses. A flying hoof touched the back of his head
and consciousness ceased.




CHAPTER IX


Craven woke to a burning pain in his side, a racking headache and an
intolerable thirst. It was not a sudden waking but a gradual dawning
consciousness in which time and place as yet meant nothing, and only
bodily suffering obtruded on a still partially clouded mind.
Fragmentary waves of thought, disconnected and transitory, passed
through his brain, leaving no permanent impression, and he made no
effort to unravel them. Effort of any kind, mental or physical, seemed
for the moment beyond him. He was too tired even to open his eyes, and
lay with them closed, wondering feebly at the pain and discomfort of
his whole body. He had the sensation of having been battered, he felt
bruised from head to foot. Suffering was new to him. He had never been
ill in his life, and in all his years of travel and hazardous adventure
he had sustained only trivial injuries which had healed readily and
been regarded as merely part of the day's work.

But now, as his mind grew clearer, he realised that some accident must
have occurred to induce this pain and lassitude that made him lie like
a log with throbbing head and powerless limbs. He pondered it, trying
to pierce the fog that dulled his intellect. He had a subconscious
impression of some strenuous adventure through which he had passed, but
knowledge still hovered on the borderland of fancy and actuality. He
had no recollection of the fight or of events preceding it. That he was
Barry Craven he knew; but of where he had no idea--nor what his life
had been. Of his personality there remained only his name, he was quite
sure about that. And out of the past emerged only one clear memory--a
woman's face. And yet as he dwelt on it the image of another woman's
face rose beside it, mingling with and absorbing it until the two faces
seemed strangely merged the one into the other, alike and yet wholly
different. And the effort to disentangle them and keep them separate
was greater than his tired brain could achieve, and made his head ache
more violently. Confused, and with a sudden feeling of aversion, he
stirred impatiently, and the sharp pain that shot through him brought
him abruptly to a sense of his physical state and forced utterance of
his greatest need. It had not hitherto occurred to him to wonder whether
he were alone, or even where he was. But as he spoke an arm was slipped
under him raising him slightly and a cup held to his lips. He drank
eagerly and, as he was again lowered gently to the pillow, raised his
eyes to the face of the man who bent over him, a puckered yellow face
whose imperturbability for once had given place to patent anxiety. Craven
stared at it for a few moments in perplexity. Where had he seen it
before? Struggling to recall what had happened prior to this curiously
obscured awakening there dawned a dim recollection of shattering noise
and tumult, of blood and death and fierce unbridled human passion, of a
horde of wild-eyed dark-skinned men who surged and struggled round
him--and of a yelling Arab on a fiery roan. Memory came in a flash.
He gave a weak little croaking laugh. "You damned insubordinate little
devil," he murmured, and drifted once more into unconsciousness. When
he woke again it was with complete remembrance of everything that had
passed. He felt ridiculously weak, but his head did not ache so badly
and his mind was perfectly clear. Only of the time that had elapsed
between the moment when he had gone down under the Arabs' charge and
his awakening a little while ago he had no recollection. How long had
he been unconscious? He found himself mildly puzzled, but without any
great interest as yet. Plenty of time to find out about that and what
had befallen Omar and Sad. It was not that he did not care, but that,
for the moment, he was too tired and listless to do more than lie still
and endure his own discomfort. His side throbbed painfully and there was
something curious about his left arm, a dead feeling of numbness that
made him wonder whether it was there at all. He glanced down at it with
sudden apprehension--he had no fancy for a maimed existence--and was
relieved to find it still in place but bent stiffly across his chest
wrapped in a multitude of bandages--broken, presumably. His eyes wandered
with growing interest round the little tent where he lay. It was his own,
from which he inferred that the fight must have gone in favour of Mukair
Ibn Zarrarah's forces or he would never have been brought back here to
it. He glanced from one familiar object to another with a drowsy feeling
of contentment.

Presently he became aware that somebody had entered and turning his
head he found Yoshio beside him eyeing him with a look in which
solicitude, satisfaction, and a faint diffidence struggled for
supremacy. Craven guessed the reason of his embarrassment, but he had
no mind to refer to an order given, and disobeyed through
overzealousness. That, too, could wait--or be forgotten. He contented
himself with a single question. "How long?" he asked laconically. With
equal brevity the Jap replied: "Two days," and postponed further
inquiries by slipping a clinical thermometer into his master's mouth.
He had always been useful in attending on minor camp accidents, and
during the last two years in Central Africa he had picked up a certain
amount of rough surgical knowledge which now stood him in good stead,
and which he proceeded to put into practice with a gravity of demeanour
that made Craven, in his weakened state, want to giggle hysterically.
But he suppressed the inclination and held on to the thermometer until
Yoshio solemnly removed it, studied it intently, and nodded approval.
With the exact attention to detail that was his ruling passion he
carefully rinsed the tiny glass instrument and returned it to its case
before leaving the tent. He was back again in a few minutes with a bowl
of steaming soup, and handling Craven as if he were a child, fed him
with the gentleness of a woman. Then he busied himself about the room,
tidying it and reducing its confusion to order.

Craven watched him at first idly and then with a more definite desire
to know what had occurred. But to the questions he put Yoshio returned
evasive answers, and, resuming his professional manner, spoke gravely
of the loss of blood Craven had sustained, of the kick on the head from
which he had lain two days insensible, and his consequent need of rest
and sleep, finally departing as if to remove temptation from him.
Craven chafed at the little Jap's caution and swore at his obstinacy,
but a pleasant drowsiness was stealing over him and he surrendered to
it without further struggle.

It was more than twelve hours before he opened his eyes again, to find
the morning sunlight streaming into the tent.

Yoshio hovered about him, deft-handed and noiseless of tread, feeding
him and redressing the wounds in his side where the bullet had entered
and passed out. After which he relaxed the faintly superior tone he had
adopted and condescended to consult with his patient as to which of the
scanty drugs in the tiny medicine chest would be the best to
administer. He was disappointed but acquiescent in Craven's decision to
trust to his own hardy constitution as long as the wounds appeared
healthy and leave nature to do her own work. And again recommending
sleep he glided away.

But Craven had no desire or even inclination to sleep. He was
tremendously wide awake, his whole being in revolt, facing once more
the problem he had thought done with for ever. Again fate had
intervened to thwart his determination. For the third time death, for
which he longed, had been withheld, and life that was so bitter, so
valueless, restored. To what end? Why had the peace he craved for been
torn from him--why had he been forced to begin again an existence of
hideous struggle? Had he not repented, suffered as few men suffer, and
striven to atone? What more was required of him, he wondered bitterly.
A galling sense of impotence swept him and he raged at his own
nothingness. Self-determination seemed to have been taken from him and
with fierce resentment he saw himself as merely a pawn in the game of
life; a puppet to fulfil, not his own will, but the will of a greater
power than his. In the black despair that came over him he cursed that
greater power until, shuddering, he realised his own blasphemy, and a
broken prayer burst from his lips. He had come to the end of all
things, he was fighting through abysmal darkness. His need was
overwhelming--alone he could not go forward, and desperately, he turned
to the Divine Mercy and prayed for strength and guidance.

Too weary in spirit to mark the slow passing of the hours he fought his
last fight. And gradually he grew calmer, calm enough to accept--if not
to understand--the inscrutable rulings of Providence. He had arrogated
to himself the disposal of his life, but it was made clear to him that
a higher wisdom had decreed otherwise. He did not attempt to seek the
purpose of his preservation, enough that for some unfathomable reason
it was once more plainly indicated that there was to be no shirking. He
had to live, and to do what was possible with the life left him.
Gillian! the thought of her was torment. He had tried to free her, and
she was still bound. It would be part of his punishment that,
suffering, he would have to watch her suffer too. With a groan he flung
his uninjured arm across his eyes and lay very still. The day wore on.
He roused himself to take the food that Yoshio brought at regular
intervals but feigned a drowsiness he did not feel to secure the
solitude his mood demanded. And Yoshio, enjoying to the full his state
of temporary authority, sat outside the door of the tent and kept away
inquirers. Listlessly Craven watched the evening shadows deepen and
darken. For hours he had thought, not of himself but of the woman he
loved, until his bruised head ached intolerably. And all his
deliberation had taken him no further than where he had begun. He was
to take up anew the difficult life he had fled from--for that was what
it amounted to. He had deserted her who had in all the world no one but
him. It had an ugly sound and he flinched from the naked truth of it,
but he had done with subterfuges and evasions. He had made her his wife
and he had left her--nothing could alter the fact or mitigate the
shame. Past experience had taught him nothing; once again he had left a
woman in her need to fend for herself. She was his wife, his to shield
and to protect, doubly so in her equivocal position that subjected her
to much that would not affect one happily married. During the few
months they had lived at Craven Towers after their marriage she had
shown by every means in her power her desire to be to him the comrade
he had asked her to be. And he had repelled her. He had feared himself
and the strength of his resolution. Now, as he thought of it with
bitter self-reproach, he realised how much more he could have done to
make her life easier, to smooth the difficulties of their relationship.
Instead he had added to them, and under the strain he had broken down,
not she. The egoism he had thought conquered had triumphed over him
again to his undoing. Crushing shame filled him, but regrets were
useless. The past was past--what of the future? He was going back to
her. He was to have the torturing happiness of seeing her again--but
what would his re-entry into her life mean to her? What had these
two years of which he knew nothing done for her? There had been
an accumulated mail waiting for him at Lagos. She had written
regularly--but she had told him nothing. Her short letters had been
filled with inquiries for the mission, references to Peters' occasional
visits to Paris, trivialities of the weather--stilted laborious
communications in which he read effort and constraint. How would she
receive him--would she even receive him at all? It seemed incredible
that she should. He knew her innate gentleness, the selflessness of
her disposition, but he knew also that there was a limit to all things.
Would she not see in his return the reappearance of a master, a jailer
who would curb even that small measure of freedom that had been hers?
For bound to him the freedom he had promised her was a mockery. And how
was he to explain his prolonged absence? She could not have failed to
see some mention of the return of the medical mission, to have wondered
why he still lingered in Africa. The letter he had written and entrusted
to Yoshio could never now be delivered. She must not learn what he had
meant her to know only after his death. He could not explain, he must
leave her to put whatever interpretation she would upon it. And what but
the most obvious could she put? He writhed in sudden agony of mind, and
the physical pain the abrupt movement caused was easier to bear than the
thought of her scorn. It was all so hopeless, so complicated. He turned
from it with a weary sigh and fell to dreaming of the woman herself.

The tent had grown quite dark. Outside the camp noises were dying away.
The sound of subdued voices reached him occasionally, and once or twice
he heard Yoshio speak to some passer by.

Then, not far away, the mournful chant of a singer rose clearly out of
the evening stillness, penetrating and yet curiously soft--a plaintive
little desert air of haunting melancholy, vibrant with passion. It
stopped abruptly as it had begun and Craven was glad when it ended. It
chimed too intimately with his own sad thoughts and longings. He was
relieved when Yoshio came presently to light the lamp and attend to his
wants. The Jap chatted with unusual animation as he went about his
duties and Craven let him talk uninterrupted. The functions of nurse
and valet were quickly carried through and in a short time preparations
for the night were finished and Yoshio, wrapped in a blanket, asleep at
the foot of Craven's bed. He had scarcely closed his eyes since the day
before the punitive force set out, but tonight, conscious that his
vigilance might be relaxed, he slept heavily.

Craven himself could not sleep. He lay listening to his servant's even
breathing, looking at the tiny flame of the little lamp, which was
small enough not to add to the heat of the tent and too weak to
illuminate it more than partially, thinking deeply. He strove to stem
the current of his thoughts, to keep his mind a blank, or to
concentrate on trivialities--he followed with exaggerated interest the
swift erratic course of a bat that had flown in through the open door
flap, counted the familiar objects around him showing dimly in the
flickering light, counted innumerable sheep passing through the
traditional gate, counted the seconds represented in the periodical
silences that punctuated a cicada's monotonous shrilling. But always he
found himself harking back to the problem of the future that he could
not banish from his mind. His mental distress reacted on his body. He
grew restless, but every movement was still attended by pain and he
compelled himself to lie still, though his limbs twitched almost
uncontrollably. He was infinitely weary of the forced posture that was
not habitual with him, infinitely weary of himself.

The moon rose late, but when it came its clear white light filled the
tent with a cold brilliance that killed the feeble efforts of the
little lamp and intensified the shadows where its rays did not
penetrate. Craven looked at the silvery beam streaming across the room,
and quite suddenly he thought of the moonlight in Japan--the moonlight
filtering through the tall dark fir trees in the garden of enchantment;
he heard the night wind sighing softly round the tiny screen-built
house; the air became heavy with the cloying smell of pines and
languorous scented flowers, redolent with the well-remembered dreaded
fragrance of the perfume she had used. Bathed in perspiration,
shuddering with terrible prescience, he stared wild-eyed at the moonlit
strip where a nebulous form was rising and gathering into definite
shape. An icy chill ran through him. Suffocated with the rapid pounding
of his heart, sick with horror at the impending vision he knew to be
inevitable, he watched the shadowy figure slowly substantiate into the
semblance of a living, breathing body. Not intangible as she had always
appeared before, but material as she had been in life, she stood erect
in the brilliant pathway of light, facing him. He could see the outline
of her slender limbs, solid against the shimmering background; he could
mark the rise and fall of the bosom on which her delicate hands lay
clasped; he recognised the very obi that she wore--his last gift, sent
from Tokio during his three weeks' absence. The little oval face was
placid and serene, but he waited, with fearful apprehension, for the
fast closed eyes to open and reveal the agony he knew that he would see
in them. He prayed that they might open soon, that his torture might be
brief, but the terrible reality of her presence seemed to paralyse him.
He could not turn his eyes away, could not move a muscle of his
throbbing, shivering body. She seemed to sway, gently, almost
imperceptibly, from side to side--as though she waited for some sign or
impellent force to guide her. Then with horrible dread he became aware
that she was coming slowly, glidingly, toward him and the spell that
had kept him motionless broke and he shrank back among the pillows, his
sound hand clenched upon the covering over him, his parched lips moving
in dumb supplication. Nearer she came and nearer till at last she stood
beside him and he wondered, in the freezing coldness that settled round
his heart, did her coming presage death--had her soul been sent to
claim his that had brought upon her such fearful destruction? A muffled
cry that was scarcely human broke from him, his eyes dilated and the
clammy sweat poured down his face as she bent toward him and he saw the
dusky lashes tremble on her dead white cheek and knew that in a second
the anguished eyes would open to him in all their accusing awfulness.
The bed shook with the spasm that passed through him. Slowly the heavy
lids were raised and Craven looked once more into the misty depths of
the great grey eyes that were the facsimile of his own. Then a tearing
sob of wonderful and almost unbelievable relief escaped him, for the
agony he dreaded was not visible--the face so close to his was the face
of the happy girl who had loved him before the knowledge of despair had
touched her, the tender luminous eyes fixed on him were alight with
trust and adoration. Lower and lower she bent and he saw the parted
lips curve in a smile of exquisite welcome--or was it fare-well? For as
he waited, scarcely breathing and tense with a new wild hope, the
definite outline of her figure seemed to fade and tremble; a cold
breath like the impress of a ghostly kiss lay for an instant on
his forehead, he seemed to hear the faint thin echo of a whispered
word--and she was gone. Had she ever been at all? Exhausted, he had
no strength to probe what had passed, he was only conscious of a firm
conviction that he would never see again the dreaded vision that had
haunted him. His rigid limbs relaxed, and with a gasping prayer of
unutterable thankfulness he turned his face to the darkness and broke
down completely, crying like a child, burying his head in the pillow
lest Yoshio should be awakened by the sound of his terrible sobs. And,
presently, worn out, he fell asleep.

It was nearly mid-day when he woke again, in less pain and feeling
stronger than the day before.

The vision of the previous night was vivid in his recollection, but he
would not let himself ponder it. It was to him a message from the dead,
an almost sacred sign that the spirit of the woman he had wronged was
at rest and had vouchsafed the forgiveness for which he had never
hoped. He would rather have it so. He shrank from brutally dissecting
impressions that might after all be only the result of remorse working
on a fevered imagination. The peace that had come to him was too
precious to be lightly let go. She had forgiven him though he could
never forgive himself.

But despite the tranquillizing sense of pardon he felt he knew that the
penalty of his fault was not yet paid, that it would never be paid. The
tragic memory of little O Kara San still rose between him and
happiness. He was still bound, still trapped in the pit he had himself
dug. He was unclean, unfit, debarred by his sin from following the
dictates of his heart. A deep sadness and an overwhelming sense of loss
filled him as he thought of the woman he had married. She was his wife,
he loved her passionately, longed for her with all the strength of his
ardent nature, but, sin-stained, he dared not claim her. In her
spotless purity she was beyond his desire. And because of him she must
go through life robbed of her woman's heritage. In marrying her he had
wronged her irreparably. He had always known it, but at the time there
had seemed no other course open to him. Yet surely there must have been
some alternative if he had set himself seriously to find it. But had
he? Doggedly he argued that he had--that personal consideration had not
swayed him in his decision. But even as he persisted in his assertion
accusing conscience rose up and stripped from him the last shred of
personal deception that had blinded him, and he acknowledged to himself
that he had married her that she might not become the wife of any other
man. He had been the meanest kind of dog in the manger. At the time he
had not realised it--he had thought himself influenced solely by her
need, not his. But his selfishness seemed very patent to him now. And
what was to be the end of it? How was he ever to compensate for the
wrong done her?

Yoshio's entry put a stop to introspection that was both bitter and
painful. And when he left him an hour later Craven was in no mood to
resume speculation that was futile and led nowhere. He had touched
bedrock--he could not think worse of himself than he did. The less he
thought of himself the better. His immediate business seemed to be to
get well as quickly as possible and return to England--beyond that he
could not see. The sound of Sad's voice outside was a welcome relief.
He appeared to be arguing with Yoshio, who was obstinately refusing him
entrance. Craven cut short the discussion.

"Let the Sheik come in, Yoshio!" he called, and laughed at the weakness
of his own voice. But it was strong enough to carry as far as the tent
door, and, with a flutter of draperies, the Arab Chief strode in. He
grasped Craven's outstretched hand and stood looking down on him for a
moment with a broad smile on his handsome face. "_Enfin, mon brave_, I
thought I should never see you! Always you were asleep, or so it was
reported to me," he said with a laugh, dropping to his heels on the mat
and lighting a cigarette. Then he gave a quick searching glance at the
bandaged figure on the bed and laughed again.

"You ought to be dead, you know, would have been dead if it hadn't been
for that man of yours," with a backward jerk of his head toward the
door. "You owe him your life, my friend. You know he came with us that
night, borrowed a horse and the burnous you wouldn't wear, and kept out
of sight till the last minute. He was close behind you when we charged,
lost you in the mle, and found you again just in the nick of time.
I was cut off from you myself for the moment, but I saw you wounded,
saw him break a way through to you and then saw you both go down. I
thought you were done for. It was just then the tide turned in our
favour and I managed to reach you, with no hope of finding you alive. I
was never more astonished in my life than when I saw that little devil
of a Japanese crawl out from under a heap of men and horses dragging you
after him. He was bruised and dazed, he didn't know friend from foe, bu
he had enough sense left to know that you were alive and he meant to
keep you so. He laid you out on the sand and he sat on you--you can
laugh, but it's true--and blazed away with his revolver at everybody
who came near, howling his national war cry till I wept with laughter.
And after it was all over he snarled like a panther when I tried to
touch you, and, refusing any assistance, carried you back here on the
saddle in front of him--and you were no light weight. A man, by _Allah_!"
he concluded enthusiastically. Craven smiled at the Arab's graphic
description, but he found it in his heart to wish that Yoshio's zeal
had not been so forward and so successful. But there were other lives
than his that had been involved.

"Omar?" he asked anxiously. The laughter died abruptly from Sad's eyes
and his face grew grave.

"Dead," he said briefly; "he did not try to live. Life held nothing for
him without Safiya," he added, with an expressive shrug that was
eloquent of his inability to understand such an attitude.

"And she--?"

"Killed herself the night she was taken. Her abductor got no pleasure
of her and Omar's honour was unsmirched--though he never knew it, poor
devil. He killed his man," added Sad, with a smile of grim
satisfaction. "It made no difference, he was renegade, a traitor, ripe
for death. The Chief fell to my lot. It was from him I learned about
Safiya--he talked before he died." The short hard laugh that followed
the meaning words was pure Arab. He lit another cigarette and for some
time sat smoking silently, while Craven lay looking into space trying
not to envy the dead man who had found the rest that he himself had
been denied.

To curb the trend of his thoughts he turned again to Sad. Animation
had vanished from the Arab's face, and he was staring gloomily at the
strip of carpet on which he squatted. His dejected bearing did not
betoken the conqueror he undoubtedly was. That his brother's death was
a deep grief to him Craven knew without telling, but he guessed that
something more than regret for Omar was at the bottom of his
depression.

"It was decisive, I suppose," he said, rather vaguely, thinking of the
action of four days ago. Sad nodded. "It was a rout," he said with a
hint of contempt in his voice. "Dogs who could plunder and kill when no
resistance was offered, but when it came to a fight they had no stomach
for it. Yet they were men once, and, like fools, we thought they were
men still. They had talked enough, bragged enough, by _Allah_! and it is
true there were a few who rallied round their Chief. But the rank and
file--bah!" He spat his cigarette on to the floor with an air of scorn.
"It promised well enough at first," he grumbled. "I thought we were
going to have an opportunity of seeing what stuff my men were made of.
But they had no organisation. After the first half hour we did what we
liked with them. It was a walk over," he added in English, about the
only words he knew.

Craven laughed at his disgusted tone.

"And you, who were spoiling for a fight! No luck, Sheik."

Sad looked up with a grin, but it passed quickly, leaving his face
melancholy as before. Craven made a guess at the trouble.

"It will make a difference to you--Omar's death, I mean," he suggested.

Sad gave a little harsh laugh.

"Difference!" he echoed bitterly. "It is the end of everything," and he
made a violent gesture with his hands. "I must give up my regiment," he
went on drearily, "my comrades, my racing stable in France--all I care
for and that makes life pleasant to me. For what? To rule a tribe who
have become too powerful to have enemies; to listen to interminable
tales of theft and disputed inheritances and administer justice to
people who swear by the Koran and then lie in your face; to marry a
wife and beget sons that the tribe of Mukair Ibn Zarrarah may not die
out. _Grand Dieu_, what a life!" The tragic misery of his voice left no
doubt as to his sincerity. And Craven, who knew him, was not inclined
to doubt. The expedient that had been adopted in Sad's case was
justifiable while he remained a younger son with no immediate prospect
of succeeding to the leadership of the tribe--there had always been the
hope that Omar's wife would eventually provide an heir--but as events
had turned out it had been a mistake, totally unfitting him for the
part he was now called upon to play. His innate European tendencies,
inexplicable both to himself and to his family, had been developed and
strengthened by association with the French officers among whom he had
been thrown, and who had welcomed him primarily as the representative
of a powerful desert tribe and then, very shortly afterwards, for
himself. His personal charm had won their affections and he had very
easily become the most popular native officer in the regiment. Courted
and feted, shown off, and extolled for his liberality of mind and
purse, his own good sense had alone prevented him from becoming
completely spoiled. To the impecunious Frenchmen his wealth was a
distinct asset in his favour, for racing was the ruling passion in the
regiment, and the fine horses he was able to provide insured to them
the preservation of the inter-regimental trophy that had for some years
past graced their mess table. He had thrown himself into the life
whole-heartedly, becoming more and more influenced by western thought
and culture, but without losing his own individuality. He had
assimilated the best of civilization without acquiring its vices. But
the experience was not likely to conduce to his future happiness.
Craven thought of the life led by the Spahi in Algiers, and during
periods of leave in Paris, and contrasted it with the life that was
lying before him, a changed and very different existence. He foresaw
the difficulties that would have to be met, the problems that would
arise, and above all he understood Sad's chief objection--the marriage
from which his misogynous soul recoiled. Like himself the Arab was
facing a crisis that was momentous. Two widely different cases but
analogous nevertheless. While he was working out his salvation in
England Sad would be doing the same in his desert fastness. The
thought strengthened his friendship for the despondent young Arab. He
would have given much to be able to help him but his natural reserve
kept him silent. He had made a sufficient failure of his own life. He
did not feel himself competent to offer advice to another.

"It's a funny world," he said with a half sigh, "though I suppose it
isn't the world that's at fault but the people who live in it," and in
his abstraction he spoke in his own language.

"_Plait-il?_" Sad's puzzled face recalled him to himself and he
translated, adding: "It's rotten luck for you, Sheik, but it's kismet.
All things are ordained," he concluded almost shyly, feeling himself
the worst kind of Job's comforter. The Arab shrugged. "To those who
believe," he repeated gloomily, "and I, my friend, have no beliefs.
What would you? All my life I have doubted, I have never been an
orthodox Mohammedan--though I have had to keep my ideas to myself _bien
entendu_! And the last few years I have lived among men who have no
faith, no god, no thought beyond the world and its pleasures. Islam is
nothing to me. 'The will of _Allah_--the peace of _Allah_,' what are they
but words, empty meaningless words! What peace did _Allah_ give to Omar,
who was a strict believer? What peace has _Allah_ given to my father, who
sits all day in his tent mourning for his first-born? I swear myself by
_Allah_ and by the Prophet, but it is from custom, not from any feeling I
attach to the terms. I have read a French translation of a life of
Mohammed written by an American. I was not impressed. It did not tend
to make me look with any more favour on his doctrine. I have my own
religion--I do not lie, I do not steal, I do not break my word. Does
the devout follower of the Prophet invariably do as much? You know, and
I know, that he does not. Wherein then is he a better man than I? And
if there be a future life, which I am quite open to admit, I am
inclined to think that my qualifications will be as good as any true
son of the faith," he laughed unmirthfully, and swung to his feet.

"There are--other religions," said Craven awkwardly. He had no desire
to proselytise and avoided religious discussions as much as possible,
but Sad's confidence had touched him. He was aware that to no one else
would the Arab have spoken so frankly. But Sad shook his head.

"I will keep my own religion. It will serve," he said shortly. Then he
shrugged again as if throwing aside the troubles that perplexed him and
looked down on Craven with a quick laugh. "And you, my poor friend, who
had so much better have taken the burnous I offered you, you will stay
and watch the metamorphosis of the Spahi, _hein_?"

"I wish I could," said Craven with an answering smile, "but I have my
own work waiting for me in England. I'll have to go as soon as I'm
sufficiently patched up."

Sad nodded gravely. He was perfectly well aware of the fact that
Craven had deliberately sought death when he had ridden with the
tribe against their enemies. That a change had come over him since
the night of the raid was plainly visible even to one less astute
than the sharp-eyed Arab, and his expressed intention of returning
to England confirmed the fact. What had caused the change did not seem
to matter, enough that, to Sad, it marked a return to sanity. For it
had been a fit of madness, of course--in no other light could he regard
it. But since it had passed and his English friend was once more in full
possession of his senses he could only acquiesce in a decision that
personally he regretted. He would like to have kept him with him
indefinitely. Craven stood for the past, he was a link with the life
the Francophile Arab was reluctantly surrendering. But it was not the
moment to argue. Craven looked suddenly exhausted, and Yoshio who had
stolen in noiselessly, was standing at the head of the bed beyond the
range of his master's eyes making urgent signals to the visitor to go.

With a jest and a cheery word Sad obediently removed his picturesque
person.




CHAPTER X


It was nearly four months before Craven left the camp of Mukair Ibn
Zarrarah. His injuries had healed quickly and he had rapidly regained
his former strength. He was anxious to return to England without delay,
but he had yielded to Sad's pressing entreaties to wait until they
could ride to Algiers together. There had been much for the young Sheik
to do. He was already virtual leader of the tribe. Mukair Ibn Zarrarah,
elderly when his sons had been born, had aged with startling suddenness
since the death of Omar. He had all at once become an old man, unable
to rally from the shock of his bereavement, bewailing the fate of his
elder and favourite son, and trembling for the future of his beloved
tribe left to the tender mercies of a man he now recognised to be more
Frenchman than Arab. He exaggerated every Francophile tendency he saw
in Sad and cursed the French as heartily as ever Omar had done,
forgetting that he himself was largely responsible for the inclinations
he objected to. And his terrors were mainly imaginary. A few
innovations Sad certainly instituted but he was too astute to make any
material changes in the management of his people. They were loyal and
attached to the ruling house and he was clever enough to leave well
alone; broad-minded enough to know that he could not run a large and
scattered tribe on the same plan as a regiment of Spahis; philosophical
enough to realise that he had turned down a page in his life's history
and must be content to follow, more or less, in the footsteps of his
forebears. The fighting men were with him solidly, even those who had
been inclined to object to his European tactics had, in view of his
brilliant generalship, been obliged to concede him the honour that
was his due. For his victory had not been altogether the walkover he
had airily described to Craven. The older men--the headmen in
particular--more prejudiced still, who, like Mukair Ibn Zarrarah,
had centred all their hopes on Omar, were beginning to comprehend
that their fears of Sad's rule were unfounded and that his long
sojourn among the hated dominant race had neither impaired his courage
nor fostered practices abhorrent to them. Craven watched with interest
the gradual establishment of mutual goodwill between the young Sheik
and his petty Chiefs. Since his recovery he had attended several of the
councils called in consequence of the old Sheik's retirement from active
leadership of the tribe, and he had been struck by Sad's restrained
and conciliatory attitude toward his headmen. He had met them half-way,
sinking his own inclinations and disarming their suspicions of him. At
the same time he had let it be clearly understood that he meant to be
absolute as his father had been. In spite of the civilisation that had
bitten so deeply he was still too much an Arab, too much the son of
Mukair Ibn Zarrarah, to be anything but an autocrat at heart. And his
assumption of power had been favourably looked upon by the minor
Chiefs. They were used to being ruled by an iron hand and would have
despised a weak leader. They had feared the effects of foreign
influence, dreaded a rgime that might have lessened the prestige of
the tribe. Their doubts set at rest they had rallied with enthusiasm
round their new Chief.

As soon as he had been able to get about again Craven had visited
Mukair Ibn Zarrarah in his darkened tent and been shocked at his
changed appearance. He could hardly believe that the bowed stricken
figure who barely heeded his entrance, but, absorbed in grief,
continued to sway monotonously to and fro murmuring passages from the
Koran alternately with the name of his dead son, was the vigorous alert
old man he had seen only a few weeks before dominating a frenzied crowd
with the strength of his personality and addressing them in tones that
had carried to the furthest extent of the listening multitude. Crushing
sorrow and the weight of years suddenly felt had changed him into a
wreck that was fast falling to pieces.

Sad had followed him out into the sunshine.

"You see how it is with him," he said. "I cannot leave him now. As soon
as possible I will go to Algiers to give in my resignation and smooth
matters with the Government. We shall not be in very good odour over
this affair. We have kept the peace so long in this quarter of the
country that deliberate action on our part will take a lot of
explaining. They will admit provocation but will blame our mode of
retaliation. They may blame!" he laughed and shrugged. "I shall be
called hasty, ill-advised. The Governor will haul me over the coals
unmercifully--you know him, that fat old Faidherbe? He is always
trembling for his position, seeing an organized revolt in the petty
squabbles of every little tribe, and fearful of an outbreak that might
lead to his recall. A mountain of flesh with the heart of a chicken! He
will rave and shout and talk a great deal about the beneficent French
administration and the ingratitude of Chiefs like myself who add to the
Government's difficulties. But my Colonel will back me up, unofficially
of course, and his word goes with the Governor. A very different man,
by _Allah_! It would be a good thing for this country if he were where
Faidherbe is. But he is only a soldier and no politician, so he is
likely to end his days a simple Colonel of Spahis."

As they moved away from the tent they discussed the French methods of
administration as carried out in Algeria, and Craven learned a great
deal that astonished him and would also have considerably astonished
the Minister of the Interior sitting quietly in his office in the Place
Beauveau. Sad had seen and heard much. His known sympathies had made
him the recipient of many confidences and even his Francophile
tendencies had not blinded him to evils that were rampant, corruption
and double dealing, bribes freely offered and accepted by highly placed
officials, fortunes amassed in crooked speculations with Government
money--the faults of individuals who had abused their official
positions and exploited the country they had been sent to administer.

As Craven listened to these frank revelations from the only honest Arab
he had ever met he wondered what effect Sad's intimate knowledge would
have upon his life, how far it would influence him, and what were
likely to be his future relations with the masters of the country. With
a Chief less broadminded and of less innate integrity the result might
easily be disastrous. But Sad had had larger experience than most Arab
Chiefs and his adherence to the French was due to what he had seen in
France rather than to what had been brought to his notice in Algeria.

It was early in January when they started on the long ride across the
desert. For some weeks Craven had been impatient to get away, only his
promise to Sad kept him.

It was a large cavalcade that left the oasis, for the new Chief
required a bigger escort to support his dignity than the Captain of
Spahis had done. The days passed without incident. Despite Craven's
desire to reach England the journey was in every way enjoyable. When he
had actually started his restlessness decreased, for each successive
sunrise meant a day nearer home. And Sad, too, had thrown off the
depression and new gravity that had come to him and talked more
hopefully of the future. As they travelled northward they reached a
region of greater cultivation and in their route passed some of the big
fruit farms that were becoming more and more a feature of the country.
Spots of beauty in the wilderness, carved out of arid desert by
patience and perseverance and threatened always by the devastating
locust, though no longer subjected to the Arab raids that had been a
daily menace twenty or thirty years before. The motley gangs of
European and native workers toiling more or less diligently in the
vineyards and among the groves of fruit trees invariably collected to
watch the passing of the Sheik's troop, a welcome break in the monotony
of their existence, and once or twice Sad accepted the hospitality of
farmers he knew.

Craven stayed only one night in Algiers. When writing home from Lagos
he had given, without expecting to make use of it, an address in
Algiers to which letters might be sent, but when he called at the
office the morning after his arrival he found that owing to the mistake
of a clerk his mail had been returned to England. The lack of news made
him uneasy. He was gripped by a sudden fear that something might have
happened to Gillian, and he wondered whether he should go first to
Paris, to the flat he had taken for her. But second thoughts decided
him to adhere to his original intention of proceeding straight to
Craven--surely she must by this time have returned to the Towers.

There was nothing to do but telegraph to Peters that he was on his way
home and make arrangements for leaving Africa at the earliest
opportunity. He found there was no steamer leaving for Marseilles for
nearly a week but he was able to secure berths for himself and Yoshio
on a coasting boat crossing that night to Gibraltar, and at sunset he
was on board waving fare-well to Sad, who had come down to the quay to
see the last of him, and was standing a distinctive figure among the
rabble of loafers and water-side loungers of all nationalities who
congregated night and morning to watch the arrival and departure of
steamers. The tide was out and the littered fore-shore was lined with
fishing-boats drawn up in picturesque confusion, and in the shallow
water out among the rocks bare-legged native women were collecting
shell fish and seaweed into great baskets fastened to their backs,
while naked children splashed about them or stood with their knuckles
to their teeth to watch the thrashing paddle wheels of the little
steamer as she churned slowly away from the quay. Craven leant on the
rail of the ship, a pipe between his teeth--he had existed for the last
four months on Sad's cigarettes--and waved a response to the young
Sheik's final salute, then watched him stalk through the heterogeneous
crowd to where two of his mounted followers were waiting for him
holding his own impatient horse. He saw him mount and the passers-by
scatter as the three riders set off with the usual Arab impetuosity,
and then a group of buildings hid him from sight.

The idlers by the waterside held no interest for Craven, he was too
used to them, too familiar with the riff-raff of foreign ports even to
glance at them. But he lingered for a moment to look up at the church
of Notre Dame d'Afrique that, set high above the harbour and standing
out sharply against the skyline, was glowing warmly in the golden rays
of the setting sun.

Then he went below to the stuffy little cabin where dinner was waiting.

The next four days he kicked his heels impatiently in Gibraltar waiting
to pick up a passage on a home bound Indian boat. When it came it was
half empty, as was to be expected at that time of year, and the gale
they ran into immediately drove the majority of the passengers into the
saloons, and Craven was able to tramp the deck in comparative solitude
without having to listen to the grumbles of shivering Anglo-Indians
returning home at an unpropitious season. In a borrowed oilskin he
spent hours watching the storm, looking at the white topped waves that
piled up against the ship and threatened to engulf her, then slid
astern in a welter of spray. The savage beauty of the sea fascinated
him, and the heavy lowering clouds that drove rapidly across a leaden
sky, and the stinging whip of the wind formed a welcome change after
more than two years of pitiless African sun and intense heat.

They passed up the Thames dead slow in a dense fog that grew thicker
and murkier as they neared the docks, but they berthed early enough to
enable Craven to catch a train that would bring him home in time for
dinner. It was better than wasting a night in London.

He had a compartment to himself and spent the time staring out of the
misty rain-spattered windows, a prey to violent anxiety and impatience.
The five-hour journey had never seemed so long. He had bought a number
of papers and periodicals but they lay unheeded on the seat beside him.
He was out of touch with current events, and had stopped at the
bookstall more from force of habit than from any real interest. He had
wired to Peters again from the docks. Would she be waiting for him at
the station? It was scarcely probable. Their meeting could not be other
than constrained, the platform of a wayside railway station was hardly
a suitable place. And why in heaven's name should she do him so much
honour? He had no right to expect it, no right to expect anything. That
she should be even civil to him was more than he deserved. Would she be
changed in any way? God, how he longed to see her! His heart beat
furiously even at the thought. With his coat collar turned up about his
ears and his cap pulled down over his eyes he shivered in a corner of
the cold carriage and dreamed of her as the hours drew out in maddening
slowness. Outside it was growing dusk and the window panes had become
too steamy for him to recognise familiar landmarks. The train seemed to
crawl. There had been an unaccountable wait at the last stopping place,
and they did not appear to be making up the lost time.

It was a strange homecoming, he thought suddenly. Stranger even than
when, rather more than six years ago, he had travelled down to Craven
with his aunt and the shy silent girl whom fate and John Locke had made
his ward. Was she also thinking of that time and wishing that a kinder
future had been reserved for her? Was she shrinking from his coming,
deploring the day he had ever crossed her path? It was unlikely that
she could feel otherwise toward him. He had done nothing to make her
happy, everything to make her unhappy. With a stifled groan he leant
forward and buried his face in his hands, loathing himself. How would
she meet him? Suppose she refused to resume the equivocal relationship
that had been fraught with so much misery, refused to surrender the
greater freedom she had enjoyed during his absence, claimed the right
to live her own life apart from him. It would be only natural for her
to do so. And morally he would have no right to refuse her. He had
forfeited that. And in any case it was not a question of his allowing
or refusing anything, it was a question solely of her happiness and her
wishes.

Darkness had fallen when the train drew up with a jerk and he stepped
out on to the little platform. It was a cheerless night and the wind
tore at him as he peered through the gloom and the driving rain,
wondering whether anybody had come to meet him. Then he made out
Peters' sturdy familiar figure standing under the feeble light of a
flickering lamp. Craven hurried toward him with a smile softening his
face. His life had been made up of journeys, it seemed to him suddenly,
and always at the end of them was Peters waiting for him, Peters who
stuck to the job he himself shirked, Peters who stood loyally by an
employer he must in his heart despise, Peters whose boots he was not
fit to clean.

The two men met quietly, as if weeks not years had elapsed since they
had parted on the same little platform.

"Beastly night," grumbled the agent, though his indifference to bad
weather was notorious, "must feel it cold after the tropics. I brought
a man to help Yoshio with your kit. Wait a minute while I see that it's
all right." He started off briskly, and with the uncomfortable
embarrassment he always felt when Peters chose to emphasise their
relative positions, Craven strode after him and grabbed him back with
an iron hand.

"There isn't any need," he said gruffly. "I wish you wouldn't always
behave as if you were a kind of upper servant, Peter. It's dam'
nonsense. Yoshio is quite capable of looking after the kit, there's
very little in any case. I left the bulk of it in Algiers, it wasn't
worth bringing along. There are only the gun cases and a couple of
bags. We haven't much more than what we stand up in."

Peters acquiesced good-temperedly and led the way to the closed car
that was waiting at the station entrance. As the motor started Craven
turned to him eagerly, with the question that had been on his lips for
the last ten minutes.

"How is Gillian?"

Peters shot a sidelong glance at him.

"Couldn't say," he said shortly; "she didn't mention her health when
she wrote last--but then she never does."

"When she wrote--" echoed Craven, and his voice was dull with
disappointment; "isn't she at the Towers? I missed my mail at
Algiers--some mistake of a fool of a clerk. I haven't had any home
news for nearly a year."

"She is still in Paris," replied Peters dryly, and to Craven his tone
sounded faintly accusing. He frowned and stared out into the darkness
for a few minutes without speaking, wondering how much Peters knew. He
had disapproved of the African expedition, stating his opinion frankly
when Craven had discussed it with him, and it was obvious that since
then his views had undergone no change. Craven understood perfectly
what those views were and in what light he must appear to him. He could
not excuse himself, could give no explanation. He doubted very much
whether Peters would understand if he did explain--his moral code was
too simple, his sense of right and wrong too fine to comprehend or to
countenance suicide. Craven also felt sure that had he been aware of
the circumstances Peters would not have hesitated to oppose his
marriage. Why hadn't he told Peters the whole beastly story when he
returned from Japan? Peters had never failed a Craven, he would not
have failed him then. He stifled a bitter sigh of useless regret and
turned again to his companion.

"Then I take it the Towers is shut up. Are you giving me a bed at the
Hermitage?" he asked quietly.

"No. I have kept the house open so that it might be ready if at any
time your wife suddenly decided to come home. I imagined that would be
your wish."

"Yes, yes, of course," said Craven hurriedly, "you did quite right."
Then he glanced about him and frowned again thoughtfully. "Isn't this
the Daimler Gillian took to France with her--surely that is Phillipe
driving?" he asked abruptly, peering through the window at the
chauffeur's back illuminated by the electric lamp in the roof of the
car.

"She sent it back a few months afterwards--said she had no need for
it," replied Peters. "I kept Phillipe on because he was a better
mechanic than the other man. There was no need for two."

Craven refrained from comment and relapsed into silence, which was
unbroken until they reached the house.

During dinner the conversation was mainly of Africa and the scientific
success of the mission, and of local events, topics that could safely
be discussed in the hearing of Forbes and the footmen. From time to
time Craven glanced about the big room with tightened lips. It seemed
chill and empty for lack of the slight girlish figure whose presence
had brought sunshine into the great house. If she chose never to
return! It was unthinkable that he could live in it alone, it would be
haunted by memories, he would see her in every room. And yet the
thought of leaving it again hurt him. He had never known until he had
gone to Africa with no intention of returning how dear the place was to
him. He had suddenly realised that he was a Craven of Craven, and all
that it meant. But without Gillian it was valueless. A shrine without a
treasure. An empty symbol that would stand for nothing. Her personality
had stamped itself on the house, even yet her influence lingered in the
huge formal dining room where he sat. It had been her whim when they
were alone to banish the large table that seemed so preposterously big
for two people and substitute a small round one which was more
intimate, and across which it was possible to talk with greater ease.
Forbes was a man of fixed ideas and devoted to his mistress. Though
absent her wishes were faithfully carried out. Mrs. Craven had decreed
that for less than four people the family board was an archaic and
cumbersome piece of furniture, consequently tonight the little round
table was there, and brought home to Craven even more vividly the sense
of her absence. It seemed almost a desecration to see Peters sitting
opposite in her place. He grew impatient of the lengthy and ceremonious
meal the old butler was superintending with such evident enjoyment, and
gradually he became more silent and heedless, responding mechanically
and often inaptly to Peters' flow of conversation. He wished now he had
obeyed the impulse that had come to him in Algiers to go straight to
Paris. By now he would have seen her, have learned his fate, and the
whole miserable business would have been settled one way or the other.
He could not wonder that she had elected to remain abroad. He had put
her in a horrible position. By lingering in Africa after the return of
the rest of the mission he had made her an object of idle curiosity and
speculation. He had left her as the elder Barry Craven had left his
mother, to the mercy of gossip-mongers and to the pity and compassion
of her friends which, though even unexpressed, she must have felt and
resented. He glanced at the portrait of the beautiful sad woman in the
panel over the mantelpiece and a dull red crept over his face. It was
well that his mother had died before she realised how completely the
idolised son was to follow in the footsteps of the husband who had
broken her heart. It was a tradition in the family. From one motive or
another the Cravens had consistently been pitiless to their womenkind.
And he, the last of them, had gone the way of all the others. A greater
shame and bitterness than he had yet felt came to him, and a passionate
longing to undo what he had done. And what was left for him to do was
so pitifully little. But he would do it without further delay, he would
start for Paris the next day. Even the few hours of waiting seemed
almost unbearable. The thought occurred to him to motor to London that
night to catch the morning boat train from Victoria, but a glance at
his watch convinced him of the impossibility of the idea. Owing to the
delay of the train it had been nine o'clock before he reached the
Towers. It was ten now. Another hour would be wasted before Phillipe
and the car would be ready for the long run. And it was a wicked night
to take a man out, the strain of driving under such conditions at top
speed through the darkness would be tremendous. Reluctantly he
abandoned the project. There was nothing for it but to wait until the
morning.

Forbes at his elbow recalled him to his duties as host. With a murmured
apology to Peters he rose to his feet.

"Coffee in the study, please," he said, and left the room.

In the study, in chairs drawn up to the blazing fire, the two men
smoked for some time in silence. Though consumed with anxiety to hear
more of his wife Craven felt a certain diffident in mentioning her
name, and Peters volunteered nothing. After a time the agent began to
speak of the estate. "I want to give an account of my stewardship," he
said, with an odd ring in his voice that Craven did not understand. And
for the best part of an hour he talked of farms and leases, of cottage
property and timber, of improvements and alterations carried out during
Craven's absence or in progress, of the conditions under which certain
of the bigger houses scattered about the property were let--a complete
history of the working and management of the estate extending back many
years until Craven grew more and more bewildered as to the reason of
this detailed revelation that seemed to him somewhat unnecessary and
certainly ill-timed. He did not want to be bothered with business the
very moment of his arrival. Peters was punctilious of course, always
had been, but his stewardship had never been called in question and
there was surely no need for this complicated and lengthy narrative of
affairs tonight.

"And then there are the accounts," concluded the agent, in the dry
curiously formal voice he had adopted all the evening. Craven made a
gesture of protest. "The accounts can wait," he said shortly. "I don't
know why on earth you want to bother about all this tonight, Peter.
There will be plenty of time later. Have I ever criticised anything you
did? I'm not such a fool. You've forgotten more than I ever knew about
the estate."

"I should like you to see them," persisted Peters, drawing a big bundle
of papers from his pocket and proceeding to remove and roll up with his
usual precise neatness the tape that confined them. He pushed the typed
sheets across the little table. "I don't think you will find any error.
The estate accounts are all straightforward. But there is an item in
the personal accounts that I must ask you to consider. It is a sum of
eight thousand pounds standing to your credit that I do not know what
to do with. You will remember that when you went to Africa you
instructed me to pay your wife four thousand a year during your
absence. I have sent her the money every quarter, which she has
acknowledged. Three months ago the London bank advised me that eight
thousand pounds had been paid into you account by Mrs. Craven, the
total amount of her allowance, in fact, during the time you have been
away."

There was a lengthy pause after Peters stopped speaking, and then
Craven looked up slowly.

"I don't understand," he said thickly; "all her allowance! What has she
been living on--what the devil does it mean?"

Peters shrugged. "I don't know any more about it than you do. I am
simply telling you what is the case. It was not for me to question her
on such a matter," he said coldly.

"But, Good Heavens, man," began Craven hotly, and then checked himself.
He felt stunned by Peters' bald statement of fact, unable, quite, for
the moment, to grasp it. Heavens above, how she must hate him! To
decline to touch the money he had assured her was hers, not his! On
what or on whom had she been living? His face became suddenly
congested. Then he put the hateful thought from him. It was not
possible to connect such a thing with Gillian. Only his own foul mind
could have imagined it. And yet, if she had been other than she was, if
it had been so, if in her loneliness and misery she had found love and
protection she had been unable to withstand--the fault would be his,
not hers. He would have driven her to it. He would be responsible. For
a moment the room went black. Then, he pulled himself together. Putting
the bundle of accounts back on to the table he met steadily Peters'
intent gaze. "My wife is quite at liberty to do what she chooses with
her own money," he said slowly, "though I admit I don't understand her
action. Doubtless she will explain it in due course. Until then the
money can continue to lie idle. It is not such a large sum that you
need be in such a fierce hurry about it. In any case I am going to
Paris tomorrow. I can let you know further when I have seen her." His
voice was harsh with the effort it cost him to steady it. "And having
seen her--what are you going to do to her?" The question, and the
manner of asking it, made Craven look at Peters in sudden amazement.
The agent's face was stern and curiously pale, high up on his cheek a
little pulse was beating visibly and his eyes were blazing direct
challenge. Craven's brows drew together slowly.

"What do you mean?"

Peters leant forward, resting one arm on his knee, and the knuckles of
his clenched hand shone white.

"I asked you in so many words what you were going to do to her," he
said, in a voice vibrant with emotion. "You will say it is no business
of mine. But I am going to make it my business. Good God, Barry, do you
think I've seen nothing all these years? Do you think I can sit down
and watch history repeat itself and make no effort to avert it for lack
of moral courage? I can't. When you were a boy I had to stand aside and
see your mother's heart broken, and I'm damned if I'm going to keep
silent while you break Gillian's heart. I loved your mother, the light
went out for me when she died. For her sake I carried on here, hoping I
might be of use to you--because you were her son. And then Gillian came
and helped to fill the blank she had left. She honoured me with her
friendship, she brought brightness into my life until gradually she has
become as dear to me as if she were my own daughter. All I care about
is her happiness--and yours. But she comes first, poor lonely child.
Why did you marry her if it was only to leave her desolate again?
Wasn't her past history sad enough? She was happy here at first, before
your marriage. But afterwards--were you blind to the change that came
over her? Couldn't you see that she was unhappy? I could. And I tell
you I was hard put to it sometimes to hold my tongue. It wasn't my
place to interfere, it wasn't my place to see anything, but I couldn't
help seeing what was patent to the eye of anybody who was interested.
You left her, and you have come back. For what? You are her husband,
in name at any rate--oh, yes, I know all about that, I know a great
deal more than I am supposed to know, and do you think I am the only
one?--legally she is bound to you, though I do not doubt she could easily
procure her freedom if she so wished, so I ask you again--what are you
going to do? She is wholly in your power, utterly at your mercy. What
more is she to endure at your hands? I am speaking plainly because it
seems to me to be a time for plain speaking. I can't help what you
think, I am afraid I don't care. You've been like a son to me. I
promised your mother on her death-bed that I would never fail you, I
could have forgiven you any mortal thing on earth--but Gillian. It's
Gillian and me, Barry. And if it's a case of fighting for her
happiness--by God, I'll fight! And now you know why I have told you all
that I have tonight, why I have rendered an account of my stewardship.
If you want me to go I shall quite understand. I know I have exceeded
my prerogative but I can't help it. I've left everything in order, easy
for anybody to take over--" Craven's head had sunk into his hands, now
he sprang to his feet unable to control himself any longer. "Peter--for
God's sake--" he cried chokingly, and stumbling to the window he
wrenched back the curtain and flung up the sash, lifting his face to
the storm of wind and rain that beat in about him, his chest heaving,
his arms held rigid to his sides.

"Do you think I don't care?" he said at last, brokenly. "Do you think
it hasn't nearly killed me to see her unhappiness--to be able to do
nothing. You don't know--I wasn't fit to be near her, to touch her.
I hoped by going to Africa to set her free. But I couldn't die. I
tried, God knows I tried, by every means in my power short of
deliberately blowing my brains out--a suicide's widow--I couldn't brand
her like that. When men were dying around me like flies death passed me
by--I wasn't fit even for that, I suppose." He gave a ghastly little
mirthless laugh that made Peters wince and came back slowly into the
room, heedless of the window he had left open, and walked to the
fireplace dropping his head on his arm on the mantel. "You asked me
just now what I meant to do to her--it is not a question of me at all
but what Gillian elects to do. I am going to her tomorrow. The future
rests with her. If she turns me down--and you turn me down--I shall go
to the devil the quickest way possible. It's not a threat, I'm not
trying to make bargains, it's just that I'm at the end of my tether.
I've made a damnable mess of my life, I've brought misery to the woman
I love. For I do love her, God help me. I married her because I loved
her, because I couldn't bear to lose her. I was mad with jealousy. And
heaven knows I've been punished for it. My life's been hell. But it
doesn't matter about me--it's only Gillian who matters, only Gillian
who counts for anything." His voice sank into a whisper and a long
shudder passed over him.

The anger had died out of Peters' face and the old tenderness crept
back into his eyes as they rested on the tall bowed figure by the
fireplace. He rose and went to the window, shutting it and drawing the
curtain back neatly into position. Then he crossed the room slowly and
laid his hand for an instant on Craven's shoulder with a quick firm
pressure that conveyed more than words. "Sit down," he said gruffly,
and going back to the little table splashed some whisky into a glass
and held it under the syphon. Craven took the drink from him
mechanically but set it down barely tasted as he dropped again into the
chair he had left a few minutes before. He lit a cigarette, and Peters,
as he filled his own pipe, noticed that his hands were shaking. He was
silent for a long time, the cigarette, neglected, smouldering between
his fingers, his face hidden by his other hand. At last he looked up,
his grey eyes filled with an almost desperate appeal.

"You'll stay, Peter--for the sake of the place?" he said unsteadily.
"You made it what it is, it would go to pieces if you went. And I can't
go without you--if you chuck me it will about finish me."

Peters drew vigorously at his pipe and a momentary moisture dimmed his
vision. He was remembering another appeal made to him in this very room
thirty years before when, after a stormy interview with his employer,
the woman he had loved had begged him to remain and save the property
for the little son who was her only hold on life. It was the mother's
face not the son's he saw before him, the mother's voice that was
ringing in his ears.

"I'll stay, Barry--as long as you want me," he said at length huskily
from behind a dense cloud of smoke. A look of intense relief passed
over Craven's worn face. He tried to speak and, failing, gripped
Peters' hand with a force that left the agent's fingers numb.

There was another long pause. The blaze of the cheerful fire within and
the fury of the storm beating against the house without were the only
sounds that broke the silence. Peters was the first to speak.

"You say you are going to her tomorrow--do you know where to find her?"

Craven looked up with a start.

"Has she moved?" he asked uneasily. Peters stirred uncomfortably and
made a little deprecating gesture with his hand.

"It was a tallish rent, you know. The flat you took was in the most
expensive quarter of Paris," he said with reluctance. Craven winced and
his hands gripped the arms of his chair.

"But you--you write to her, you have been over several times to see
her," he said, with a new trouble coming into his eyes, and Peters
turned from his steady stare.

"Her letters, by her own request, are sent to the bank. I was only once
in the flat, shortly after you left. I think she must have given it up
almost immediately. Since then when I have run over for a day--she
never seemed to want me to stay longer--we have met in the Louvre or in
the gardens of the Tuileries, according to weather," he said
hesitatingly.

Craven stiffened in his chair.

"The Louvre--the gardens of the Tuileries," he gasped, "but what on
earth--" he broke off with a smothered word Peters did not catch, and
springing up began to pace the room with his hands plunged deep in his
pockets. His face was set and his lips compressed under the neat
moustache. His mind was in a ferment, he could hardly trust himself to
speak. He halted at last in front of Peters, his eyes narrowing as he
gazed down at him. "Do you mean to tell me that you yourself do not
know where she is?" he said fiercely. Peters shook his head. "I do not.
I wish to heaven I did. But what could I do? I couldn't question her.
She made it plain she had no wish to discuss the subject. The little I
did say she put aside. It was not for me to spy on your wife, or employ
a detective to shadow her movements, no matter how anxious I felt."

"No, you couldn't have done that," said Craven drearily, and turned
away. To pursue the matter further, even with Peters, seemed suddenly
to him impossible. He wanted to be alone to think out this new problem,
though at the same time he knew that no amount of thought would solve
it. He would have to wait with what patience he could until the morning
when he would be able to act instead of think.

His face was expressionless when he turned to Peters again and sat down
quietly to discuss business. Half an hour later the agent rose to go.
"I'll bring up a checque book and some money in the morning before you
start. You won't have time to go to the bank in London. Wire me your
address in Paris--and bring her back with you, Barry. The whole place
misses her," he said with a catch in his voice, stuffing the bundle of
papers into his pocket. Craven's reply was inaudible but Peters' heart
was lighter than it had been for years as he went out into the hall to
get his coat. "Yes, I'm walking," he replied in response to an inquiry,
"bit of rain won't hurt me, I'm too seasoned," and he laughed for the
first time that evening.

Going back to the study Craven threw a fresh log on the fire, filled a
pipe, and drew a chair close to the hearth. It was past one but he was
disinclined for bed. Peters' revelations had staggered him. His brain
was on fire. He felt that not until he had found her and got to the
bottom of all this mystery would he be able to sleep again. And perhaps
not even then, he thought with a quickening heart-beat and a sick fear
of what his investigations in Paris might lead to.

Before leaving England he had snatched time from his African
preparations to superintend personally the arrangements for her stay in
Paris. He had himself selected the flat and installed her with every
comfort and luxury that was befitting his wife. She had demurred once
or twice on the score of extravagance, particularly in the case of the
car he had insisted on sending over for her use, but he had laughed at
her protests and she had ceased to make any further objection,
accepting his wishes with the shy gentleness that marked her usual
attitude toward him. And she must have hated it all! Why? She was his
wife, what was his was hers. He had consistently impressed that on her
from the first. But it was obvious that she had never seen it in that
light. He remembered her passionate refusal--ending in tears that had
horrified him--of the big settlement he had wished to make at the time
of their marriage, her distress in taking the allowance he had had to
force upon her. Was it only his money she hated, or was it himself as
well? And to what had her hatred driven her? A fiercer gust of wind
shrieked round the house, driving the rain in torrents against the
window, and as he listened to it splashing sharply on the glass Craven
shivered. Where was she tonight? What shelter had she found in the
pitiless city of contrasts? Fragile and alone--and penniless? His hand
clenched until the stem of the pipe he was holding snapped between his
fingers and he flung the fragments into the fire, leaning forward and
staring into the dying embers with haggard eyes--picturing,
remembering. He was intimately acquainted with Paris, with two at least
of its multifarious aspects--the brilliant Paris of the rich, and the
cruel Paris of the struggling student. And yet, after all, what did his
knowledge of the latter amount to? It had amused him for a time to live
in the Latin quarter--it was in a disreputable cabaret on the south
side of the river that he had first come across John Locke--he had
mixed there with all and sundry, rubbing shoulders with the riff-raff
of nations; he had seen its vice and destitution, had mingled with its
feverish surface gaiety and known its underlying squalor and ugliness,
but always as a disinterested spectator, a transient passer by. Always
he had had money in his pocket. He had never known the deadly ever
present fear that lies coldly at the heart of even the wildest of the
greater number of its inhabitants. He had seen but never felt
starvation. He had never sold his soul for bread. But he had witnessed
such a sale, not once or twice but many times. In his carelessness he
had accepted it as inevitable. But the recollection stabbed him now
with sudden poignancy. Merciful God, toward what were his thoughts
tending! He brushed his hand across his eyes as though to clear away
some hideous vision and rose slowly to his feet. The expiring fire fell
together with a little crash, flared for an instant and then died down
in a smouldering red mass that grew quickly grey and cold. With a deep
sigh Craven turned and went heavily from the room. He lingered for a
moment in the hall, dimly lit by the single lamp left burning above,
listening to the solemn ticking of the clock, that at that moment
chimed with unnatural loudness.

Mechanically he took out his watch and wound it, and then went slowly
up the wide staircase. At the head of the stairs he paused again. The
great house had never seemed so silent, so empty, so purposeless. The
rows of closed doors opening from the gallery seemed like the portals
of some huge mausoleum, vacant and chill. A house of desolation that
cried to him to fill its emptiness with life and love. With lagging
steps he walked half way along the gallery, passing two of the closed
doors with averted head, but at the third he stopped abruptly, yielding
to an impulse that had come to him. For a moment he hesitated, as
though before some holy place he feared to desecrate, then with a quick
drawn breath he turned the handle and went in.

In the darkness his hand sought and found the electric switch by the
door, and pressing it the room was flooded with soft shaded light.
Peters had spoken only the truth when he said that the house was kept
in immediate readiness for its mistress's return. Craven had never
crossed the threshold of this room before, and seeing it thus for the
first time he could hardly believe that for two years it had been
tenantless. She might have gone from it ten minutes before. It was
redolent of her presence. The little intimate details were as she had
left them. A bowl of bronze chrysanthemums stood on the dressing table
where lay the tortoise-shell toilet articles given her by Miss Craven.
A tiny clock ticked companionably on the mantelpiece. The pain in his
eyes deepened as they swept the room with hungry eagerness to take in
every particular. Her room! The room from which his unworthiness had
barred him. All that he had forfeited rose up before him, and in
overwhelming shame and misery a wave of burning colour rolled slowly
over his face. Never had the distance between them seemed so wide.
Never had her purity and innocence been brought home to him so forcibly
as in this spotless white chamber. Its simplicity and fresh almost
austere beauty seemed the reflection of her own stainless soul and the
fierce passion that was consuming him seemed by contrast hideous and
brutal. It was as if he had violated the sanctuary of a cloistered Nun.
And yet might not even passion be beautiful if love hallowed it? His
arms stretched out in hopeless longing, her name burst from his lips in
a cry of desperate loneliness, and he fell on his knees beside the bed,
burying his face in the thick soft quilt, his strong brown hands
outflung, gripping and twisting its silken cover in his agony.

Hours later he raised his tired eyes to the pale light of the wintry
dawn filtering feebly through the close drawn curtains.

       *       *       *       *

He left that morning for Paris, alone.

It was still raining steadily and the chill depressing outlook from the
train did not tend to lighten his gloomy thoughts.

In London the rain poured down incessantly. The roads were greasy and
slippery with mud, the pavements filled with hurrying jostling crowds,
whose dripping umbrellas glistened under the flaring shop lights.
Craven peered at the cheerless prospect as he drove from one station to
the other and shivered at the gloom and wretchedness through which he
was passing. The mean streets and dreary squalid houses took on a
greater significance for him than they had ever done. The sight of a
passing woman, ill-clad and rain-drenched, sent through him a stab of
horrible pain. Paris could be as cruel, as pitiless, as this vaster,
wealthier city.

He left his bag in the cloakroom at Charing Cross and spent the hours
of waiting for the boat train tramping the streets in the vicinity of
the station. He was in no mood to go to his Club, where he would find a
host of acquaintances eager for an account of his wanderings and
curious concerning his tardy return.

The time dragged heavily. He turned into a quiet restaurant to get a
meal and ate without noticing what was put before him. At the earliest
opportunity he sought the train and buried himself in the corner of a
compartment praying that the wretched night might lessen the number of
travellers. Behind an evening paper which he did not attempt to read he
smoked in silence, which the two other men in the carriage did not
break. Foreigners both, they huddled in great coats in opposite corners
and were asleep almost before the train pulled out of the station.
Laying down the paper that had no interest for him Craven surveyed them
for a moment with a feeling of envy, and tilting his hat over his eyes,
endeavoured to emulate their good example. But, despite his weariness,
sleep would not come to him. He sat listening to the rattle of the
train and to the peaceful snoring of his companions until his mind
ceased to be diverted by immediate distractions and centred wholly on
the task before him.

At Dover the weather had not improved and the sea was breaking high
over the landing stage, drenching the few passengers as they hurried on
to the boat and dived below for shelter from the storm. Indifferent to
the weather Craven chose to stay on deck and stood throughout the
crossing under lea of the deckhouse where it was possible to keep a
pipe alight.

Contrary to his expectation he managed to sleep in the train and slept
until they reached Paris. Avoiding a hotel where he was known he drove
to one of the smaller establishments, and engaging a room ordered
breakfast and sat down to think out his next move.

There were two possible sources of information, the flat, where she
might have left an address when she vacated it, and the bank where
Peters had told him she called for letters. He would try them before
resorting to the expedient of employing a detective, which he was loth
to do until all other means failed. He hated the idea, but there was no
alternative except the police, whose aid he had determined not to
invoke unless it became absolutely necessary. It was imperative that
his search should be conducted as quietly and as secretly as possible.
He decided to visit the flat first, and, having wired to Peters in
accordance with his promise, set out on foot.

It was not actually raining but the clouds hung low and threatening and
the air was raw. He walked fast, swinging along the crowded streets
with his eyes fixed straight in front of him. And his great height and
deeply tanned face made him a conspicuous figure that excited attention
of which he was ignorant.

Leaving the narrow street where was his hotel he emerged into the Place
de la Madeleine, and threading his way through the stream of traffic
turned into the Boulevard de Malesherbes, which he followed, cutting
across the Boulevard Haussmann and passing the Church of Saint
Augustin, until the trees in the Parc Monceau rose before him. How
often in the heat of Africa had he pictured her sitting in the shade of
those great spreading planes, reading or sketching the children who
played about her? He had thought of her every hour of the day and
night, seeing her in his mind moving about the flat he had taken and
furnished with such care. How utterly futile had been all his dreams
about her. His lips tightened as he passed up the steps of the house he
remembered so well.

But to his inquiries the concierge, who was a new-comer, could give no
reply. He had no knowledge of any Madame Craven who had lived there,
and was plainly uninterested in a tenant who had left before his time.
It was past history with which he had nothing to do, and with which he
made it clear he did not care to be involved. He was curt and decisive
but, with an eye to Craven's powerful proportions, refrained from the
insolence that is customary among his kind. It was the first check, but
as he walked away Craven admitted to himself that he had not counted
overmuch on obtaining any information from that quarter, taking into
account the short time she had lived there. Remained the bank. He
retraced his steps, walking directly to the Place de l'Opra. But the
bank, which was also a tourists' agency, could give him no assistance.
The lady called for her letters at infrequent intervals, they had no
idea where she might be found. Would the gentleman care to leave a
card, which would be given to her at the first opportunity? But Craven
shook his head--the chance of her calling was too vague--and passed out
again into the busy streets. There was nothing for it now but a
detective agency, and with his face grown grimmer he went without
further delay to the bureau of a firm he knew by repute. In the private
room of the _Chef de Bureau_ he detailed his requirements with national
brevity and conciseness. His knowledge of the language stood him in
good stead and the painfulness of the interview was mitigated by the
businesslike and tactful manner in which his commission was received.
The keen-eyed man who sat tapping a gold pencil case on his thumbnail
in the intervals of taking notes had a reputation to maintain which he
was not unwilling to increase; foreign clients were by no means rare,
but they did not come every day, nor were they always so apparently
full of wealth as this stern-faced Englishman, who spoke
authoritatively as one accustomed to being obeyed and yet with a turn
of phrase and _politesse_ unusual in his countrymen.

Followed two days of interminable waiting and suspense, two days that
to Craven seemed like two lifetimes. He hung about the hotel, not
daring to go far afield lest he should lose some message or report. He
had no wish either to advertise his presence in Paris, he had too many
friends there, too many acquaintances whose questions would be
difficult to parry.

But on the morning of the third day, about eleven o'clock, he was
called to the telephone. A feeling of dread ran through him and he was
conscious of a curious sensation of weakness as he lifted the receiver.
But the voice that hailed him was reassuring and complacently
expressive of a neat piece of work well done. The wife of _Monsieur_ had
been traced, they had taken time--oh, yes, but they had followed
_Monsieur's_ instructions _au pied de la lettre_ and had acted with a
discretion that was above criticism. Then followed an address given
minutely. For a moment he leaned against the side of the telephone box
shaking uncontrollably. Only at this moment did he realise completely
how great his fear had been. There had been times when the recurring
thought of the Morgue and its pitiful occupants had been a foretaste of
hell. The feeling of weakness passed quickly and he went out to the
entrance of the hotel and leaped into a taxi which had just set down a
fare.

He knew well the locality toward which he was driving. Years ago he
could almost have walked to it blindfold, but today time was precious.
And as he sat forward in the jolting cab, his hands locked tightly
together, it seemed to him as if every possible hindrance had combined
to bar his progress. The traffic had never appeared so congested, the
efforts of the agents on point duty so hopelessly futile. Omnibuses and
motors, unwieldy meat carts and fiacres, inextricably jammed, met them
at every turn, until at last swinging round by the corner of the Louvre
the streets became clearer and the car turned sharply to cross the
river. As they approached the address the detective had given him
Craven was conscious of no sensation of any kind. A deadly calm seemed
to have taken possession of him. He had ceased even to speculate on
what lay before him. The house at which they stopped at last was
typical of its kind; in his student days he had rented a studio in a
precisely similar building, and the concierge to whom he applied might
have been the twin sister of the voluble amply proportioned citoyenne
of long ago who had kept a maternal eye on his socks and shirts and a
soft spot in her heart for the _bel Anglais_ who chaffed her
unmercifully, but paid his rent with commendable promptitude. A huge
woman, with a shrewd not unkindly face, she sat in a rocking chair with
a diminutive kitten on her shoulder and a mass of knitting in her lap.
As she listened to Craven's inquiry she tossed the kitten into a basket
and bundled the shawl she was making under her arm, while she rose
ponderously to her feet and favoured the stranger with a stare that was
frankly and undisguisedly inquisitive. A pair of twinkling eyes encased
in rolls of fat swept him from head to foot in leisurely survey, and he
felt that there was no detail about him that escaped attention, that
even the texture of his clothing and the very price of the boots he was
wearing were gauged with accuracy and ease. She condescended to speak
at last in a voice that was curiously soft, and warmed into something
almost approaching enthusiasm. Madame Craven? but certainly, _au
quatrieme_. Monsieur was perhaps a patron of the arts, he desired to buy
a picture? It was well, painters were many but buyers were few. Madame
was assuredly at home, she was in fact engaged at that moment with a
model. A model--_Sapristi_!--he called himself such, but for herself she
would have called him _un vrai apache_! Of a countenance, _mon Dieu_! She
paused to wave her hands in horror and jerk her head toward the
staircase, continuing her confidences in a lowered tone. The door of
the studio was open, it was wiser when such gentry presented
themselves, and also did she not herself always sit in the hall that
she might be within call, one never knew--and Madame was an angel with
the heart of a child. A face to study--and she thought of nothing else.
But there were those who thought for her, the blessed innocent. It was
doubtless because she was English--Monsieur was also English, she
observed with another shrewd glance and a wide smile. Madame would be
glad to see a compatriot. If Monsieur would do himself the trouble of
ascending the stairs he could not mistake the door, it was at the top,
and, as she had said, it was open.

She beamed on him graciously as with a murmur of thanks Craven turned
to mount the stone staircase. A feeling of relief came to him at the
thought of the warm hearted self-appointed guardian sitting in kindly
vigilance in the big armchair below. Here, too, it would appear,
Gillian had made herself beloved. As he passed quickly upward the
unnatural calm that had come over him gave place to a very different
feeling. It was brought home to him all at once that what he had longed
and prayed for was on the point of taking effect. He realised that the
ghastly waiting time was over, that in a few moments he would see her,
and his heart began to throb violently. Every second that still
separated them seemed an age and he took the last remaining flight two
steps at a time. But he stopped abruptly as he reached the level of the
landing. The open door was within a few feet of him but screened from
where he stood.

It was her voice that had arrested him, speaking with an accent of
weariness he had never heard before that sent a sudden quiver to his
lips. His fingers clenched on the soft hat he held.

"But it does not do at all," she was saying, and the racking cough that
accompanied her words struck through Craven's heart like a knife, "it
is the expression that is wrong. If you look like that I can never
believe that you are what you say you are. Think of some of the
horrible things you have told me--try and imagine that you are still
tracking down that brute who took your little Colette from you--" A
husky voice interrupted her. "No use, Madame, when I remember that I
can only think of you and the American doctor who gave her back to me,
and our happiness."

"You don't deserve her, and she hates the things you do," came the
quick retort, and the man who had been speaking laughed.

"But not me," he answered promptly, "and the things I do keep a roof
over our heads," he added grimly. "But, see, I will try again--does
that satisfy Madame?"

Craven moved forward as he heard her eager assent and her injunction to
"hold that for a few minutes," and in the silence that ensued he
reached the door. For a moment his entrance passed unobserved.

The stark bareness of the room was revealed to him in a single
comprehensive glance and the chill of it sent a sudden feeling of anger
surging through him. His face was drawn and his eyes almost menacing
with pain as they rested on the slight figure bending forward in
unconscious absorption over the easel propped in the middle of the
rugless floor. Then his gaze travelled slowly beyond her to the model
who stood on the little dais, and he understood in a flash the reason
of the old concierge's vigilance as he saw the manner of man she was
painting. The slender darkly clad youth with head thrust forward and
sunk deep on his shoulders, with close fitting peaked cap pulled low
over his eyes shading his pale sinister face was a typical
representative of the class of criminal who had come to be known in
Paris as _les apaches_; no artist's model masquerading as one of the
dreaded assassins, but the genuine article. Of that Craven was
convinced. The risk she had taken, the quick resentment he felt at the
thought of such a presence near her forced from him an exclamation.

Artist and model turned simultaneously. There was a moment of tense
silence as husband and wife stared into each other's eyes. Then the
palette and brushes she was holding dropped with a little chatter to
the floor.

"Barry," she whispered fearfully, "Barry--"

Both men sprang forward, but it was Craven who caught her as she fell.
She lay like a featherweight in his strong clasp, and as he gazed at
the delicate face crushed against his breast a deadly fear was knocking
at his heart that he had come too late. Convulsively his arms tightened
round the pitifully light little body and he spoke abruptly to the man
who was scowling beside him. "A doctor--as quick as you can--and tell
the concierge to come up." Anxiety roughened his voice and he turned
away without waiting to see his orders carried out. For a second the
apache glowered at him under narrowing lids, his sullen face working
strangely, then he jerked the black cap further over his eyes and
slipped away with noiseless tread.

With a broken whisper Craven caught his frail burden closer, as though
seeking by the strength and warmth of his own body to animate the
fragile limbs lying so cold and lifeless in his arms, and he bent low
over the pallid lips he craved and yet did not dare to kiss. They were
not for him to take, he reflected bitterly, and in her unconsciousness
they were sacred.

His eyes were dark with misery as he raised his head and looked about
quickly for some couch on which to lay her. But the bare studio was
devoid of any such luxury, and with his face set rigidly he carried her
across the room and pushed open a door leading to an inner sleeping
apartment. Barer it was and colder even than the studio, and its bleak
poverty formed a horrible contrast to the big white bedroom at Craven
Towers. He laid her on the narrow comfortless bed with a smothered
groan that seemed to tear his heart to pieces. And as he knelt beside
her chafing her icy hands in helpless agony there burst in on him a
tempestuous fury who raved and stormed and called on heaven to witness
the iniquity of men. "_Bete! animal!_" she raged, "what have you done to
her--you and that rat-faced devil!" and she thrust her bulky figure
between him and the bed. Then with a sudden change of manner, her voice
grown soft and caressing, she bent over the fainting girl and slipped a
plump arm under her, crooning, over her and endeavouring to restore her
to consciousness. She snapped an enquiry at Craven and he explained as
best he could, and his explanation brought down on him a wealth of
biting sarcasm. The husband of _cet ange la_! In the name of heaven! was
there no limit to the blundering stupidity of men--had he no more sense
than to present himself with such unexpectedness, after so long an
absence? Small wonder _la pauvre petite_ had fainted. What folly! And
lashing him with her tongue she renewed her fruitless efforts. But
Craven scarcely heeded her. His eyes were fixed on the little white
face on the pillow, and he was praying desperately that she might be
spared to him, that his punishment might not take so terrible a form.
For the change in her appalled him. Slight and delicate always, she was
now a mere shadow of what she had been. If she died!--he clenched his
teeth to keep silent--must he be twice a murderer? O Hara San's blood
was on his hands, would hers also--

He turned quickly as a tall, loosely made man swung into the room. The
new-comer shot a swift glance at him and moved past to the bedside,
addressing the concierge in fluent French that was marked by a
pronounced American accent. He cut short her eager communication as he
bent over the bed and made a rapid examination.

"Light a fire in the stove, bring all the blankets you can find, and
make some strong coffee. I have been waiting for this, the marvel is it
hasn't happened before," he said brusquely. And as the woman hurried
away with surprising meekness to do his bidding he turned again to
Craven. "Friend of Mrs. Craven's?" he asked with blunt directness.
"Pity her friends haven't looked her up sooner. Guess you can wait in
the other room until I'm through here--that is if you are sufficiently
interested. It will probably be a long job and the fewer people she
sees about her when she comes to, the better."

The blood flamed into Craven's face and an angry protest rose to his
lips, but his better judgment checked it. It was not the time for
explanations or to press the claim he had to remain in the room. And
had he a claim at all, he wondered with a dull feeling of pain. "I'll
wait," he said quietly, fighting an intolerable jealousy as he watched
the doctor's skilful hands busy about her. Strangers might tend her,
but the husband she had evidently never spoken of, was banished to an
outer room to wait "if sufficiently interested." He winced and passed
slowly into the studio. And yet he had brought it on himself. She could
have had little wish to mention him situated as she was, the bare
garret he was pacing monotonously was evidence in itself that she had
determined to cut adrift from everything that was connected with the
life and the man she had obviously loathed. His surroundings left no
doubt on that score. She had plainly preferred to struggle
independently for existence rather than be beholden to him who was her
natural protector. He recalled with an aching heart the swift look of
fear that had leapt into her eyes during that long moment before she
had lost consciousness, and the memory of it went with him, searing
cruelly, as he tramped up and down in restless anxiety that would not
allow him to keep still. To see that look in her eyes again would be
more than he could endure.

From time to time the concierge passed through the room bearing the
various necessaries the doctor had demanded, but her mouth was grimly
shut and he did not ask for information that she did not seem inclined
to vouchsafe. She did unbend so far at last as to light a fire in the
stove, but she let it be clearly understood that it was not for his
benefit. "It will help to warm the other room, and it has been empty
long enough," she said, with a glance and a shrug that were full of
meaning. But as she saw the misery of his face her manner softened and
she spoke confidently of the skill of the American doctor, who from
motives of pure philanthropy had practised for some years in a quarter
that offered much experience but little pecuniary profit.

Then she left him to wait again alone.

He could not bring himself to look at the canvases propped against the
bare walls, they were witnesses of her toil, witnesses perhaps of a
failure that hurt him even more than it must have hurt her. And to him
who knew the spirit-crushing efforts of the unknown artist to win
recognition, her failure was both natural and intelligible. He guessed
at a pride that scorning patronage had not sought assistance but had
striven to succeed by merit alone, only to learn the bitter lesson that
falls to the lot of those who fight against established convention. She
had pitted her strength against a system and the system had broken her.
Her studies might be--they were--marked with genius, but genius without
advertisement had gone unrecognised and unrewarded.

But before the portrait of the strange model he had found with her he
paused for a long time. Still unfinished it was brilliantly clever. The
lower part of the face had evidently not satisfied her, for it was
wiped out, but the upper part was completed, and Craven looked at the
deep-set eyes of the apache staring back at him with almost the fire of
life--melancholy sinister eyes that haunted--and wondered again what
circumstance had brought such a man across her path. He remembered the
fragmentary conversation he had heard, remembered too that mention had
been made of the man who was even now with her in the adjoining room,
and he sighed as he realised how utterly ignorant he was of the life
she had led during his absence.

Had she meditated a complete severance from him, formed ties that would
bind her irrevocably to the life she had chosen? He turned from
the picture wearily. It was all a tangle. He could only wait, and
waiting, suffer.

He went to the window and leant his arms unseeingly on the high narrow
sill that looked out over the neighbouring housetops, straining to hear
the faintest sound from the inner room. It seemed to him that he must
have waited hours when at last the door opened and shut quietly and the
American came leisurely toward him. He faced him with swift unspoken
inquiry. The doctor nodded, moving toward the stove. "She's all right
now," he said dryly, "but I don't mind telling you she gave me the
fright of my life. I have been wondering when this was going to happen,
I've seen it coming for a long time." He paused, and looked at Craven
frowningly while he warmed his hands.

"May I ask if you are an intimate friend of Mrs. Craven's--if
you know her people? Can you put me in communication with them?
She is not in a fit state to be alone. She should have somebody
with her--somebody belonging to her, I mean. I gather there is a
husband somewhere abroad--though frankly I have always doubted his
existence--but that is no good. I want somebody here, on the spot,
now. Mrs. Craven doesn't see the necessity. I do. I'm not trying to
shunt responsibility. I've shouldered a good deal in my time and I'm
not shirking now--but this is a case that calls for more than a
doctor. I should appreciate any assistance you could give me."

The fear he had felt when he held her in his arms was clutching anew
at Craven and his face grew grey under the deep tan. "What is the
matter with her?" Something in his voice made the doctor look at him
more closely. "That, my dear sir," he parried, "is rather a leading
question." "I have a right to know," interrupted Craven quickly. "You
will pardon me if I ask--what right?" was the equally quick rejoinder.

The blood surged back hotly into Craven's face.

"The right of the man whose existence you very justly doubted," he said
heavily. The doctor straightened himself with a jerk. "You are Mrs.
Craven's husband! Then you will forgive me if I say that you have not
come back any too soon. I am glad for your wife's sake that the myth
is a reality," he said gravely. Craven stood rigidly still, and it
seemed to him that his heart stopped beating. "I know my wife is
delicate, that her lungs are not strong, but what is the cause of
this sudden--collapse?" he said slowly, his voice shaking painfully.
For a moment the other hesitated and shrugged in evident embarrassment.
"There are a variety of causes--I find it somewhat difficult to say--you
couldn't know, of course--"

Craven cut him short. "You needn't spare my feelings," he said
hoarsely. "For God's sake speak plainly.

"In a word then--though I hate to have to say it--starvation." The keen
eyes fixed on him softened into sudden compassion but Craven did not
see them. He saw nothing, for the room was spinning madly round him and
he staggered back against the window catching at the woodwork behind
him.

"Oh, my God!" he whispered, and wiped the blinding moisture from his
eyes. If it had been possible for her gentle nature to contemplate
revenge she could have planned no more terrible one than this. But in
his heart he knew that it was not revenge. For a moment he could not
speak, then with an effort he mastered himself. He could give no
explanation to this stranger, that lay between him and her alone.

"There was no need," he said at last dully, forcing the words with
difficulty; "she misunderstood--I can't explain. Only tell me what I
can do--anything that will cure her. There isn't any permanent injury,
is there--I haven't really come too late?" he gasped, with an agony of
appeal in his voice. The American shook his head. "You ran it very
fine," he said, with a quick smile, "but I guess you've come in time,
right enough. There isn't anything here that money can't cure. Her
lungs are not over strong, her heart is temporarily strained, and her
nerves are in tatters. But if you can take her to the south--or better
still, Egypt--?" he hesitated with a look of enquiry, and as Craven
nodded, continued with more assurance, "Good! then there's no reason
why she shouldn't be a well woman in time. She's constitutionally
delicate but there's nothing organically wrong. Take her away as soon
as possible, feed her up--and keep her happy. That's all she wants.
I'll look in again this evening." And with another reassuring smile and
a firm handclasp he was gone.

As his footsteps died away Craven turned slowly toward the adjoining
room with strangely contending emotions. "... keep her happy." The
bitter irony of the words bit into him as he crossed to the door and,
tapping softly, went in.

She was waiting for him, lying high on the pillows that were no whiter
than her face, toying nervously with the curling ends of the thick
plait of soft brown hair that reached almost to her waist. Her eyes
were fixed on him appealingly, and as he came toward her her face
quivered suddenly and again he saw the look of fear that had tortured
him before. "Oh, Barry," she moaned, "don't be angry with me."

It was all that he could do to keep his hungry arms from closing round
her, to keep back the passionate torrent of love that rushed to his
lips. But he dared not give way to the weakness that was tempting him.
Controlling himself with an effort of will he sat down on the edge of
the bed and covered her twitching fingers with his lean muscular hands.

"I'm not angry, dear. God knows I've no right to be," he said gently.
"I just don't understand. I never dreamt of anything like this. Can't
you tell me--explain--help me to understand?"

She dragged her hands from his, and covering her face gave way to
bitter weeping. Her tears crucified him and his heart was breaking as
he looked at her. "Gillian, have a little pity on me," he pleaded. "Do
you think I'm a stone that I can bear to see you cry?"

"What can I say?" she whispered sobbingly. "You wouldn't understand.
You have never understood. How should you? You were too generous. You
gave me your name, your wealth, you sacrificed your freedom to save me
from a knowledge of the callousness and cruelty of the world. You saw
further than I did. You knew that I would fail--as I have failed. And
because of that you married me in pity. Did you think I would never
guess? I didn't at first. I was a stupid ignorant child, I didn't
realise what a marriage like ours would mean. But when I did--oh, so
soon--and when I knew that I could never repay you--I think I nearly
died with shame. When I asked you to let me come to Paris it was not to
lead the life you purposed for me but because my burden of debt had
grown intolerable. I thought that if I worked here, paid my own way,
got back my lost self-respect, that it would be easier to bear. When
you took the flat I tried to make you understand but you wouldn't
listen and I couldn't trouble you when you were going away. And then
later when they told me at the convent what you had done, when I
learned how much greater was my debt than I had ever dreamt, and when I
heard of the money you gave them--the money you still give them every
year--the money they call the Gillian Craven Fund--"

"They had no right, I made it a stipulation--"

"They didn't realise, they thought because we were married that I must
surely know. I couldn't go on living in the flat, taking the allowance
you heaped on me. All you gave,--all you did--your generosity--I
couldn't bear it! Oh, can't you see--your money _choked_ me!" she wailed,
with a paroxysm of tears that frightened him. He caught her hands
again, holding them firmly. "Your money as much as mine, Gillian. I
have always tried to make you realise it. What is mine is yours. You're
my wife--"

"I'm not, I'm not," she sobbed wildly. "I'm only a burden thrust on
you."

A cry burst from his lips. "A burden, my God, a burden!" he groaned.
And suddenly he reached the end of his endurance. With the agony of
death in his eyes he swept her into his arms, holding her to him with
passionate strength, his lips buried in the fragrance of her hair. "Oh,
my dear, my dear," he murmured brokenly, "I'm not fit to touch you, but
I've loved you always, worshipped you, longed for you until the longing
grew too great to bear, and I left you because I knew that if I stayed
I should not have the strength to leave you free. I married you because
I loved you, because even this damnable mockery of a marriage was
better than losing you out of my life--I was cur enough to keep you
when I knew I might not take you. And I've wanted you, God knows how
I've wanted you, all these ghastly years. I want you now, I'd give my
hope of heaven to have your love, to hold you in my arms as my wife, to
be a husband to you not only in name--but I'm not fit. You don't know
what I've done--what I've been. I had no right to marry you, to stain
your purity with my sin, to link you with one who is fouled as I am.
If you knew you'd never look at me again." With a terrible sob he laid
her back on the pillows and dropped on his knees beside her. Into her
tear-wet eyes there came suddenly a light that was almost divine, her
quivering face became glorious in its pitiful love. Trembling, she
leant towards him, and her slender hands went out in swift compassion,
drawing the bowed shamed head close to her tender breast.

"Tell me," she whispered. And with her soft arms round him he told her,
waiting in despair for the moment when she would shrink from him, repel
him with the horror and disgust he dreaded. But she lay quite still
until he finished, though once or twice she shuddered and he felt the
quickened beating of her heart. And for long after his muffled voice
had died away she remained silent. Then her thin hand crept quiveringly
up to his hair, touching it shyly, and two great tears rolled down her
face. "Barry, I've been so lonely"--it was the cry of a frightened
desolate child--"if you have no pity on yourself, will you have no
pity on me?"

"Gillian!" he raised his head sharply, staring at her with desperate
unbelieving eyes, "You care?"

"Care?" she gave a tremulous little sobbing laugh. "How could I help
but care! I've loved you since the day you came to me in the convent
parlour. You're all I have, and if you leave me now"--she clung to
him suddenly--"Barry, Barry, I can't bear any more. I haven't any
strength or courage left. I'm afraid! I can't face the world alone--it's
cruel--pitiless. I love you, I want you, I can't live without you," and
with a piteous sob she strained him to her, hiding her face against his
breast, beseeching and distraught. His lips were trembling as he gathered
the shuddering little body closely in his arms, but still he hesitated.

"Think, dear, think," he muttered hoarsely, "I'm not fit to stay with
you. I've done that which is unforgivable."

"I'm your wife, I've the right to share your burden," she cried
passionately. "You didn't know, you couldn't know when you did that
dreadful thing. And if God punishes you let Him punish me too. But God
is love, He knows how you have suffered, and for those who repent His
punishment is forgiveness."

"But can you forgive--can you bear to come to me?" he faltered, still
only half believing.

"I love you," she said simply, "and life without you is death," and
lifting her face to his she gave him the lips he had not dared to take.





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